


your heart's a coarse black dog

by gleamingandwholeanddeadly (something_safe), printersdevils (tuesdaysgone)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: A lot of sex, Abigail Lives, Anal Sex, Bottom Hannibal, Bottom Will, Gay Sex, Hannibal tries to earn Will's forgiveness for s1 events, Lots of Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Rimming, They Flip!, Top Hannibal, Top Will, Will comes up with a different way to catch the ripper, Will finds a puppy and decides to give it to Hannibal, as always, dark!Will (kinda), hannibal is mildly submissive but it's pretty switchy, manual sex, mild D/s themes, philosophical debates as foreplay, poor Chilton gets fucked by life, poor fucking abigail, series 2 fix it, unprotected sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2020-01-01 07:37:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18331571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/something_safe/pseuds/gleamingandwholeanddeadly, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuesdaysgone/pseuds/printersdevils
Summary: Will scoffs, pouring boiling water into the French press."Keep the dog," he mutters, "you need something to teach you what affection really looks like.""Keep... this dog?" It's the first thing that's ruffled his veil.“Yes, that one. I think she might have some Bernese in her, she's going to be attractive when she grows up. Patient too, protective, smart. Easy to train - well, as easy as any puppy is."He sees Hannibal look down at the furry body. "These are your terms.""You can reject them, if you like," Will says archly, "but just know that if you accept them and anything happens to that dog, or Alana, I will kill you myself."





	your heart's a coarse black dog

**Author's Note:**

> So, we decided we needed to write a cute fic where Will gets Hannibal a puppy, and an idea for crack fic rapidly cycled into a more complex thing that we wanted to fit with canon, to a degree- so here it is, a series two fix it where these two get a fucking clue. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> L & Deadly xo
> 
> PS. Title is from [this beautiful illutration](http://dappermouth.tumblr.com/post/170593048766/your-hearts-a-coarse-black-dog) by Jenna Barton.

It's Miriam's belief that she allowed the Chesapeake Ripper to destroy her that wakens the dormant wrath in Will. It carries him to Hannibal's kitchen; to snicking the safety off his pistol and aiming it squarely at his perfect, noble forehead where he's stood in front of the fridge. The crack about Will's aftershave doesn't do him any favours.

He acts so _wounded_ by Will's accusations, but when Will steps forward, and cocks the hammer, he sees Hannibal accept this from him, and something stops him when his thumb pinches at the trigger.

He just can't do it. Even if it would feel so good. The reasons why he felt so betrayed by prison are myriad and insurmountable, but here in the kitchen, watching his pale eyelashes flicker in an affectation of fear, Will is hit with an ice-water flash of realisation. The reason he felt so betrayed by Hannibal wasn't merely for trusting him, but for something deeper, too. Something he's _buried_.

And Hannibal... Hannibal was never a paddle. He was a shovel.

Slowly, fear curling up under the subsiding rage, Will lowers his gun. Before Hannibal can see it in his face, he runs.

*

Coming to terms with the strange, serene joy at seeing Hannibal again, travelling in the current of his hatred, is a slow process. Will is still brewing on it when Frederick Chilton arrives on his porch, blood stained and bearing the unmistakable scent of a plan perfectly executed. He doesn't even need the explanation Frederick stumbles through, but he makes himself listen, with an inward sigh.

And then, Frederick occupied with ridding himself of the scent of blood, he calls Jack Crawford. He's had enough. He's given up on ridding himself of blood, but there are other things he can give up too.

With Chilton has been apprehended, Jack comes back to the house seeking clarity, breathless and wild-eyed. Will was going to wait, he really was, but the tiredness is overwhelming.

He looks up at him from his seat on the porch, the dogs milling nervously around him, and says flatly, "Don't contact me again, Jack."

Jack stalls, like he's not sure he heard him right.

"Will, we just caught the Ripper."

"Then what do you need me for? I'm done, Jack."

"I need you because you _insisted_ it was Hannibal Lecter, you've said every step of the way-"

"I was wrong."

"Wrong?" Jack thunders.

"Wrong," Will repeats, "and even if I'm not, I want out."

"You'll change your mind."

"You mean you'll change my mind," Will shoots back. "Maybe. But not today, Jack. Not for a long time. Working for you has ruined my life. Consumed me." A curl of his lip at that. "You, and the Ripper. I need to rebuild myself, to remember who I am."

"I thought I knew who that was too," Jack rumbles, turning away.

"You thought I was a killer," Will cuts the words with the sharp of his teeth. Jack has no answer to that. Will’s rage gains traction again, with a new path cleared. "Now you know I'm not, I'm useful to you again. I haven't even had a chance to turn my power back on."

It's easy to let it rise back up again; it's been lapping at his insides like stagnant water in an overflowing storm drain. "I don't work for the FBI, and I don't work for you. You let me rot, you let me become collateral damage. Tell me, how many lives did I save while I was in the BSHCI? How did you justify it to yourself then?"

"Will, I -" Jack shakes his head, slowly, like a wounded bear. "You - What you can do-"

"Is not for sale anymore," Will whispers. "I want to keep what's left of myself intact. I'm tired of losing people. Pieces of myself." He shakes his head. "Don't ever come back here, Jack."

"Call me if you change your mind," Jack says heavily. He pauses, like he wants to ask what changed; if Will has a different plan now. He probably hopes he does.

“The only way you’ll be hearing from me,” Will says archly, “is if my lawyer serves you papers for wrongful imprisonment.”

Mouth opening and then closing at that, Jack seems truly wounded for a moment.

Regardless, Will just stares him off the porch, his unquestionable wave drawing all the CSI with him, leaving Will alone in his cold, dusty house. Alone with his dogs and the deafening cacophony of his thoughts.

*

 Will spends days wandering his property with the dogs, walking to exhaustion, a transparent attempt even to himself to reassure himself there aren't any bars to stop him. Even the air smells sweeter than he ever thought it could; the wind crisper and wilder. The plants are greener, the trees more incredible to behold. And his dogs, faithful and sweet and joyous.

But… he still feels a twist of something, like a strangling vine. It lingers over the following days, and he tries to drown it out by busying himself, starting the arduous process of clearing out the upper floor of the house, cleaning it, re-varnishing the floors and hauling his bed, finally, into the master bedroom. He even buys a rug, and some new curtains. Bedding too, he decides, for when the night terrors finally stop.

Even with the house looking more like a home, his mind occupied with the pleasant tiredness and the satisfaction of starting to feel at home after so many years, the feeling persists.

He’s still thinking of how to shake it when he stops in town to replenish his stores. Opposite the hardware store, he spies a flash of fur in a boarded-up doorway; a brown cardboard box labelled 'FREE TO A GOOD HOME'. It might as well be a flashing neon sign.

The pup inside is barely eight weeks, Will knows, unattended and shivering. He takes his jacket off at once and wraps it up, before lifting the box under his arm.

"You'll be all right," he murmurs as soothingly as he can, heading to his car, dialling his vet as he goes. He makes an appointment on hands free, leaning to touch the little bundle on the passenger seat every now and then when he can, feeling for signs of dehydration or other illness. It's not far, but he's not sure how long the little thing has been out there.

When he gets there, he gets a chance to get a proper look in the cream and grey waiting room. The pup is a little tan and black thing, a mix but certainly with some Rottweiler in there. Will gently strokes the shivering fur and cups it against his warm body until it starts to calm. Too cold for the little thing to be outside.

The appointment is short but thorough - the pup is checked for chips, examined, inoculated, and given a clean bill of health. Probably not abandoned for long, then.

The vet looks up at him, her eyebrows quirking, the silver twists in her braids glinting in the light.

"Another one for the roost, Mister Graham?"

He shakes his head slowly. "I don't know if my dogs could handle the disruption right now. I'll have to figure something out."

"We have an adoption program, if you want to leave her here."

That makes him pull a face, and she laughs.

"I'll see how it goes at home," he decides aloud.

It doesn't go well at home. Buster is jealous whenever Will lets the puppy – who, it transpires, is a girl- sit in his lap, and she cries all night in the crate, which makes Winston whine and pace.

At two in the morning, Will finally gets the puppy out of the crate and holds her in his arms, taking her upstairs to the loosely furnished spare room. He pulls a blanket over himself and the puppy on the bare mattress and strokes her gently until she falls asleep.

He sighs into the mattress, eyes resolutely open to the featureless night. The dark buzzes against his eyes like static, making shapes. Before him, Hannibal's shape appears prostrate beside him, in graceful slumber on his side. Will has never seen him asleep in an actual bed, he realises, and the thought hurts him slightly.

Alana has. He can see her clearly too, kneeling in his yard with her dog. Applesauce. He could take this one to her too, he thinks.

 _Picking up my bad habits?_ He'd asked her, before she'd dealt him her verdict.

_Picking up your good habits._

He discounts taking the puppy to Alana.

Hannibal appears in his mind's eye again. Not that he ever really leaves it.

 _Why didn't he kill you?_ Chilton asks him, in the echoing basement of the BSHCI.

_Because he wants to be my friend._

A million images assault Will at once, chief amongst them Hannibal's gentle caresses as he watched Will suffer.

"You don't know how to be someone's friend, do you?" Will mutters. He looks down at the pup in his arms, finally relaxed enough that her paws twitch in her dreams. "Maybe I should teach you." He feels his face go stern. "I should teach you a lot of things."

The next morning, the puppy eats a hearty breakfast and happily pees on Will's kitchen floor despite the door being wide open. A chorus of barks from outside alert him to the familiar rumble of a heavy engine.

Will, shaking his head and cleaning up the mess, just lets the dogs do his greeting. The footsteps to the door are hesitant though, and Will picks up the puppy when she tries to break his neck by getting underfoot, making him sigh and curse as he steps toward the doorway to see who’s encroaching now.

Hannibal, allowing the pack to inspect his hands and shoes on the top step of the porch. Why he's come here after Will held a gun on him in his own home merits some reflection.

Automatically, Will steps back over the threshold again; tuts the dogs back inside and goes to the desk and takes out his hunting knife, not caring how it looks to retreat back inside.

When he looks again, Hannibal is looking at the little bundle under Will's arm.

"I wondered when you would get a new one," he says, "you often seem to find them when other responsibilities are fraught with dangerous mental attachments."

Will holds back his sneer. Fraught indeed.

"I quit," he says flatly. "Is that why you're here?"

"I suppose it is."

"Unlike you, to not be sure."

"On the contrary, certainty grants itself to me only on rare occasions." He takes another step closer, careful.

"Had any of those lately?" Will resists the urge to take a step back.

"One or two." He stops at the threshold, putting his hands in his pockets, non-threatening. "You have too."

"No thanks to you."

"I did what I have always done, Will. I acted on your best interest. Even now you harbour-"

"Just stop," Will snaps.

Hannibal looks visibly taken-aback for a moment. Will is going to take his own advice and deny the devil his shadows.

"You may have to pretend," he seethes, "but I don't. You let me take the fall for you, and then you missed me, didn't you?"

"Seeing you behind bars brought me the keenest pain," Hannibal tells him smoothly, ignoring the first accusation.

"I believe that," Will whispers. "You didn't expect it."

Hannibal continues to stand casually, but he looks alert, ready to move. When he tilts his head, Will sighs.

"I need to deal with all of this," he whispers, "somehow. I think it's best if we start by being honest. I know you can't be completely, not yet - but don't lie to me."

"Will you extend me the same courtesy?"

"Yes," Will says simply, "come in. I'll make some coffee."

As Hannibal follows him into the kitchen, Will hands him the puppy. "She doesn't have a name yet. Found her yesterday, vet says she's about eight or nine weeks. Mine don't like her."

"Why not?"

"They missed me; they don't want to share my attention," Will says dryly.

"They might grow accustomed to sharing. They did with Winston."

"She's going to be big," Will shrugs. He's fixing coffee, but watching Hannibal.

He's holding the dog at a slight distance, but when she wriggles, he adjusts her into a more secure position, brows raising slightly when she starts to lick his thumb. Will resists the urge to smirk.

"Would you like me to forgive you, Hannibal?" He says, silkily.

"Is that a possibility, Will?"

"Always answering questions with questions. Answer me, Doctor."

"Yes, Will, I do desire your forgiveness, if you think I've earned it."

"You categorically haven't, Will clarifies, "but there are steps you can take to start."

"Tell me?"

"Leave Alana," Will says, crisply, "keep her out of this. She deserves more than that."

Hannibal's face remains expressionless. "And after that?"

"Let Chilton take the rap for now. Let the Ripper lie."

"I'm sure that's good advice for the Ripper." He tilts his head. "If Chilton has been framed, as you suggest."

Will scoffs, pouring boiling water into the French press.

"Keep the dog," he mutters, "you need something to teach you what affection really looks like."

"Keep... this dog?" It's the first thing that's ruffled his veil.

“Yes, that one. I think she might have some Bernese in her, she's going to be attractive when she grows up. Patient too, protective, smart. Easy to train - well, as easy as any puppy is."

He sees Hannibal look down at the furry body. "These are your terms."

"You can reject them, if you like," Will says archly, "but just know that if you accept them and anything happens to that dog, or Alana, I will kill you myself."

"And how will you do that, Will?"

He turns to him, and Hannibal's face is still and keen, eyes bright.

"With my hands," he promises.

"Intimate," Hannibal murmurs.

Will sees it again, that flare of warmth like air blown over coals.

"Intimacy doesn't have to be violent," he tells him, softer now. As far as bait goes, it's not even close to subtle. Neither is Hannibal's shift.

"We were intimate, weren't we? We supported a child together."

"There is not a day that goes by that I don't regret how I failed to protect her," Will says, voice low, throat tightening. "Perhaps you ought to be careful how you invoke her."

Hannibal looks down at the puppy again, and swallows heavily. Will can see through his own sheen of unshed tears that Hannibal is struggling to keep himself composed. "If I am who you think I am, then you're putting this animal in danger."

There has been, Will notes, no argument against his terms.

"Am I? You're not a typical psychopath, Hannibal. You're capable of love, in your way. You don't get off on hurting the defenceless. No, it has to be justified to you."

"It's still quite the gamble."

"No, it's not." Certainty rushes to Will for the first time in a long time. "You want my forgiveness. Badly." He wets his lips and lets his gaze flick to Hannibal's eyes once more; the rapt dedication there. "Is that all you want?"

"Don't you know the answer to that too?"

"Answering. Questions. With questions." Will raises his brows at him and deliberately turns away for coffee cups. There's a weighted silence before Hannibal speaks.

"No."

"No," Will repeats slowly, pouring two cups of coffee and fixing both. "It isn't. And like my forgiveness, you'll need to earn it."

"You sound very sure that I want it badly enough to endure the indignities you choose for me."

Will laughs.

"If you think that caring for someone is an indignity, then maybe you should walk away." He's also very sure that Hannibal has never walked away from a bald-faced challenge like that.

Now, he looks at the puppy again, and nods. "Very well."

Will gives him his coffee. "Let's go sit down."

Hannibal sits the puppy on the floor before taking one of the armchairs by the fire, frowning when she immediately whines, following after him with an excited hop.

When Will fixes Hannibal with a meaningful stare, it’s not long before Hannibal picks the puppy up and reseats her in his lap, where she starts to chew at his waistcoat buttons.

"Full of life," Hannibal remarks idly. He looks incredibly nonplussed. Will feels the urge for a photograph, but instead takes him an antler chew before sitting down in his own chair.

"She'll chew things for about a year," he warns, "you better get her used to chewing the right things now."

"A year," Hannibal repeats.

"About, yes, some outgrow it faster than others." He’s sure he's hiding his amusement poorly. He's not at all worried about hiding his anger.

Hannibal just looks down at his puppy, then sighs and strokes her back with a careful hand. "It's a good job I own a shoe closet."

Will snorts. "Maybe."

He sips his coffee, and sighs. "I missed good coffee. I mean, I missed the dogs, I missed showering in private... but god, I missed coffee."

By the time he remembers who he's talking to, Hannibal is regarding him curiously over the rim of his own cup.

"You owe me a lot of coffee," Will paraphrases.

"I'll add it to the list," Hannibal says, and then he raises his chin again, as if struck. "Will?"

“Mm?”

"Would you care to join me for dinner?" Hannibal asks. "I could cook for you here, help you get settled back in, make the house feel like home again."

"Tonight?"

"Tonight."

"Why not," he sighs. "I went fishing the other day. Got some trout in the fridge."

"May I inspect your cupboards?"

"You may."

"May I let the other dogs in?"

"You may." He tries not to let his satisfaction at Hannibal asking show too obviously, watching him get up, accepting the puppy from him with a nod and diverting back to stroking her as Hannibal moves around his home.

Hannibal seems satisfied too, but then again, he loves to touch Will's things, doesn't he?

This new method of asking though... Will has always known Hannibal to operate as if he knows what is appropriate for current company. This isn't just different, it's verging on suspicious.

"What do you want," he murmurs to himself.

Hannibal catches it.

"Did you say something, Will?"

Will considers him. "Tell me what it is you want right now."

"Right now? I want to know if we can move forward without exchanging anymore blows."

"I think that depends on you, Hannibal. On how well you do with your... conditions."

"You must know by now that I'm very adaptable."

"I guess I'm interested to see how much."

"Would you like a demonstration?"

"And what is your idea of a demonstration, exactly?"

"That's entirely up to you, Will."

"Waiting for permission, or inspiration?"

Hannibal considers, and then shrugs one shoulder up. "Instruction."

That's new.

"You're not... historically... open to a loss of control."

"I think you'll find I've relaxed a great deal of my rules where you are concerned, dear Will."

"A hard-won privilege," Will assures.

"You still consider it as such? Even after - everything?"

Will watches him for a long time. "I thought for a while I was one of your discards," he murmurs, "but I'm still here, so I suppose I'm not."

"Never doubt that you're utterly unique," Hannibal murmurs. The heat in his gaze is undercut slightly by the puppy chewing Will's thumb and making him jump.

"Ow-"

"She bites?" Hannibal says dryly.

"She chews," Will asserts. "Puppy teeth are really sharp."

He can't help being a bit smug at the thought of the havoc the puppy might wreak on Hannibal’s showroom house.

As if he can read his mind, Hannibal raises his brows faintly, then nods: _Duly noted_. Finally, he finishes his dinner intel and comes to stand in front of Will.

"You have adequate supplies, but I wouldn't mind going out for a few things. Care for a drive?"

"No," Will says, dryly.

"No?" Hannibal says, light eyebrows raising faintly.

"I wouldn't care for a drive." Will shrugs. "I want to stay here. In my house. With my dogs." He looks at Hannibal's crisp shirt collar. "And with you, if you want to stay."

"Very well," Hannibal says after a moment. He hesitates. Will has never seen that before, and he holds onto it.

"Hannibal."

The honeyed red eyes are intent on his own when he raises them. "Will."

"Tell me what you're thinking right now."

"I'm thinking you're exercising your demonstration in petty ways."

"Maybe I'm just telling you the truth for once. No mind games."

"No mind games," he repeats, softly. The way he says it makes it sound like another condition, but Will thinks he'd fail miserably at that one.

"Help me make a list of what I need for this dog," Hannibal says after a moment of silence.

"All right." Will raises his eyebrows, getting up and shuffling to his desk, passing the puppy on the way.

"She'll need a name," he tells Hannibal.

"I suppose she will."

He doesn't say more, just watches Will as he sits down, pulls out a piece of paper and a pen, and starts to write. He's going to be thorough. Hannibal can afford it.

"Puppy school might be a good idea when she's older."

"How much older?"

"Few months." Will keeps writing.

"I'll get her enrolled as soon as she's old enough." He sounds so matter-of-fact. It irks Will to no end.

"All right. Chew toys. Lots. Treats, a clicker, a bed, a collar. Vet registry." He writes down his dog food recipe too, for good measure. God knows Hannibal is capable of making his own.

Then he hands the list over. "A leash too, for when she can go on walks. A couple of other bits and pieces." He tries not to be amused by the thought of Hannibal using scented waste bags and fails.

Hannibal can read his face, he's sure, but he doesn't comment, just folds up the list and puts it in his pocket.

"If you wouldn't mind watching my dog for a few more hours," he says then, voice steady, "I will go shopping for these items, and take care of a few other personal matters, and return before dinner time."

Will considers, then nods. "All right."

"Thank you, Will. And thank you for the coffee."

"You're welcome."

Watching Hannibal make his way back to his car, Will wonders idly if he'll return.

*

He spends the day fixing the missing roof slats that let damp in while he was away, the dogs tied downstairs and the puppy in the spare room with toys and pee pads. It's good to work with his hands; he thinks he might want to do more of it now that he has time.

Now he has no job, he realises, with a strange burst of elation, suddenly even more glad he didn't give in to Jack. He has no job, and Freddie Lounds is going to publish a book, and as much as he hates it, he'll get a cut.

A quiet, slithering voice that sounds all too like Hannibal's tells him he could compound Chilton's guilt; make it stick. Who better than him to do it? He could almost make himself believe it, if he were diligent.

But no. He doesn't want a blindfold any more, not where Hannibal is concerned. And, as is evidenced by Hannibal's arrival here this morning even after Will's rude confrontation in his kitchen, he doesn't want him to wear one.

Dimly, he wonders if he should be afraid, but he feels like the capacity has been burnt right out of him. It's conceited, perhaps, but he thinks Hannibal wants something much more specific from him – something only he can give.

He's done with the roof and washing up in the kitchen when he hears the roll and crunch of tyres on the dirt track outside, the light changed to pale grey of the afternoon, the dogs crowded around the space heater. Drying his hands, he quickly goes upstairs to check on the puppy, and when he finds her snoozing on the spare mattress, a shredded puppy pad on the floor under the window, heads back down without disturbing her: overall, it could be worse.

When the door goes, he opens it up and finds Alana at his door. There's a heavy silence, before he swallows.

"I had assumed after our last conversation that we were no longer on speaking terms."

"I guess I have something more to say."

He waits, and she continues. Her eyes are steely, but a little red. "Hannibal just called by."

"Did he? He visited me too."

"He came by to let me know that he wasn't interested in pursuing a relationship with me outside of a professional capacity," she sounds intensely hurt, and Will wants to comfort her, but her next words dumbfound him. "Apparently he doesn't feel comfortable misleading me when his affections lie elsewhere."

"God help whoever’s ‘elsewhere’,” he says dryly. She can't be making an accusation - there's nothing to accuse - but she seems incensed by a wordless knowing. It moves through Will, too, but not like fire. More like creeping frost.

"Will," her voice goes a little shaky now, "I feel like I'm just seeing the shallows of what's going on between you and Hannibal. You tried to have him killed, and he says tonight he's making you dinner. What is going _on?_ "

"We're coming to an accord," Will says, "Now that the real Chesapeake Ripper has been caught."

She's still not asking the right questions. But he doesn't have the right answers either.

"Be careful, Will," she whispers, "whatever you two are doing."

"That's going about things backwards, isn't it?" He laughs, and then bristles. "Decide who is in danger, him or me."

"I don't _know_ , Will!" she cries, frustrated.

"Then stay away from both of us," he says curtly. He doesn't care if it hurts her, at this point. He can't be responsible for this. She's safer this way, safe from both of them.

"Jack says you've resigned from the Bureau."

"I think going to prison took care of that." He shrugs. "You always said I wasn't stable enough for it."

He can watch that blow hit her too, and feel only distantly sorry. She looks him over once more, and then turns back down the porch steps. Her boots crunch on the frosty earth, and then come to a stop by her car door as she turns back to him.

"Are you stable enough for Hannibal?"

It slips off him like oil off water: he's past being tethered to her judgement.

"Be safe, Alana," he says softly, and goes back inside. He has nothing more to say.

Refusing to acknowledge the funereal air in the house after that, he occupies himself for the rest of the afternoon with clearing out more of the study upstairs and playing with the puppy. While she sleeps, finally exhausted, he takes his own pack for a walk, revelling in the simple, uncomplicated pleasure of wet noses coming to touch his hands as they walk, the long grass caressing his knees, the snow-sharp air stinging his lungs.

It's getting dark when he's coming back, and he sees the glinting blades of Hannibal's headlights slice through the royal blue night as he pulls down the dirt road to Will's little house.

Time to dine with the devil.

His shadow seems to leave the car without him and flee to the safety of the trees, black as void where he's silhouetted by the porch light from behind, gazing expectantly into the dark.

"Hannibal," Will greets from a distance to his left, so he doesn't startle when a herd of dogs comes at him out the dark. He turns unerringly toward Will's voice.

"Hello, Will."

"You came back."

"I came for my dog. And to cook you dinner." The brown paper grocers’ bag in his arm is tilted illustratively.

"I wasn't -" Hannibal waits while he herds the words together, and the dogs up the porch. "I wasn't sure. I didn't know if I could be sure." He bites his lip, and adds, "Alana told me what you said."

"Alana came to see you."

"She did."

Will waits a beat, then lets him into the house, gesturing the dogs onto their beds around the space heater, where they all pile themselves obediently. With the lamps on and everyone settled, the house seems cosy and familiar, and Will notes curiously that not even Hannibal’s presence diminishes that.

"I'm still not sure if it was a warning,” he annunciates carefully, coming back to Hannibal where he’s taken off his coat and deposited his wares in the kitchen, “or an accusation."

"An accusation of what?"

"Of... involvement."

"Arguably, she is not wrong."

"But that isn't how she meant it. Nor how you meant it."

Silence, then, dark eyes flicking up to take his measure. "What are you asking, Will?"

"I’m asking for honesty, just as ever."

"You can have it."

He'll need to ask the right questions, he suspects.

"She said you told her your affections belong elsewhere. Who's lucky?"

Hannibal pauses before he answers.

"That depends on your position on the matter, I suppose."

"Does it?"

"It does."

"Who's caught your interest, then, Hannibal?"

The breath Will sees him take is centring, steeling. He empties the grocery bag slowly, before he finally meets Will's gaze.

"You have."

"In what manner, exactly?" Will murmurs. The words are trickling down to a well inside of him, reflections sparkling on the walls.

"All of them."

"That's quite the declaration, Doctor." His teeth bare. "Considering your recent... overtures."

"You don't believe me?"

After a considering silence, Will juts his chin thoughtfully.

"I don't know what to think." He blinks up at Hannibal for a moment; watches him take a breath. The dark window behind him, paired with the low counter lights, make him look hollow and unearthly for a moment.

"Earlier, you asked for a demonstration of my... commitment to earning your forgiveness. Perhaps you'd allow me to offer one now."

"You've already met one of my three conditions," Will murmurs.

"Consider this one an additional offer."

Will hesitates. "Go on."

He doesn't even flinch when Hannibal crosses out of the shadows and into a pool of lamplight to stand before him in the doorway, just meeting his gaze when Hannibal studies his face, then reaches out to cup his cheek. With the skim of his thumb against the delicate skin under his eye, everything floating in Will's mind finally aligns. He thinks _oh,_ and _this,_ and _can I?,_ and _could he?_

And then he hears his own voice say, "Oh," soft and utterly surprised.

"Don't tell me you're so shocked."

"Hannibal," it comes out a breathless laugh, "you gave me _seizures_ -"

"You got treatment."

"Despite your best efforts."

To silence him, or to soothe him, Hannibal's thumb presses into his bottom lip, and despite himself, Will's breath catches.

"And now," Hannibal breathes, "with the benefit of my best efforts, you're here. And so am I."

"We are," Will growls softly. "Not all of our friends were so lucky, were they?" Another knot unsnarled in him, he grips Hannibal's shoulders, fisting at his shirt until his knuckles bulge under his skin. From the hearth, Winston’s head goes up, and Buster lets out a low grumble.

Hannibal doesn't pretend not to understand, but his expression turns stony; blank and horribly removed.

"You sent her to me. You knew Beverly well enough to know it was not in her nature to ignore a lead. Did you use her as proof, Will? Just to show you weren't as crazy as you felt?"

"How _dare_ you," he growls. TV screen snow blizzards in his mind, blank, flat anger.

Hannibal strokes Will's cheek again despite his seething. "It's all right, Will. Be angry with me. I can bear your wrath. I consider it a privilege."

"A _privilege._ " It comes out scathing; shaking rage.

"Yes, Will," he whispers, "a privilege." His eyes go heavy-lidded. "Just as loving you is."

It feels like a physical pain inside Will's unresisting body, and he closes his eyes against the sting there, worse than any bullet. It winds him, shakes him.

"When did you know?"

"The day we met," Hannibal replies with no hesitation, and the breath that chokes out of Will could be a laugh, if all the humour hadn’t been squeezed out of it.

"Your love," he whispers, "is lethal."

"Fitting, considering its object."

It's too much, but Will can't move away.

"You'll have to earn that too," he says, a whisper like a blade against tender skin.

Hannibal strokes the curve of his cheek. "Of course."

His expression is soft as he leans in, and a visceral shiver goes through Will when their foreheads touch, the warmth of Hannibal's skin still so welcome.

"Missing you," Will swallows, "has been the hardest part of hating you. I blindly trusted you. I let you in, and you..."

"Betrayed your trust?" Hannibal suggests.

"You eviscerated it." He sees the minute way Hannibal's nostrils flare at the word. He traces Will's brow with his thumb now. It occurs to Will that this is how he'd kill him, if he chose to. They're close. Intimate. Will shivers at how close. He can feel his heart rabbiting in his chest, but Hannibal is still as marble.

"I'm so angry with you," he whispers.

"Anger is good. It means you've run out of fear."

"Have I, though?"

"For now." He withdraws unexpectedly, gracefully. "I ought to start dinner."

An unknown emotion ripples through Will at his absence.

"I should go get the puppy," he says, belatedly. "Did you decide on a name for her?"

"Clementine," Hannibal calls in from the kitchen.

Will thinks about it as he goes up to retrieve her, smiling at the sleepy but excited greeting she gives him at the door.

"Hello, sweetheart."

He carries her downstairs and out the kitchen door to the yard, waiting while she sniffs around, the other dogs hovering at the screen door to watch. He's so busy keeping an eye on her that he almost misses Hannibal keeping an eye on him out the window. There are several protective leashes in this situation, and not all of them are metaphoric.

Will picks the puppy up when she's finished and holds her to face him.

"Clem, huh?" She licks at his face, and he laughs, taking her back up the steps. Hannibal will explain if he sees fit, Will assumes.

Inside, the house already smells delicious. Will inhales deeply as he clicks the dogs back onto their beds and sets the puppy down, watching her run to sniff Hannibal's cuffs where he’s slicing tomatoes at the counter, looking faintly put out but Will’s dull knives.

"I think she likes you," he says, surprised.

"Were you so sure she'd bark at the devil in me?" Hannibal says wryly.

"Animals sense when people are withholding," Will shoots back.

"And what am I withholding, Will?"

He can't help but scoff. "What aren't you?"

Just a faint sigh in response. "I wish to hide nothing from you, Will."

Will just lets an uncharitable silence linger and goes to pour them both a drink. There's a bottle of wine breathing on the counter, and he slides Hannibal a generous measure, receiving a polite nod in return.

"Thanks for cooking dinner," Will says, sitting on the floor with his glass to throw a ball for Clem. He feels a bit bad, seeing Buster’s tail wag at the sight of the ball, but it’s for the best that they don’t get too wound up now – whereas Clem needs wearing out.

"My pleasure as always."

Will shoots him a look at that, sensing that he’s reinstated his unflappable mask. With a sigh, he goes back to entertaining the puppy until Hannibal moves to start setting the table.

Dinner is a simple affair, unusual for Hannibal, but still note-perfect in itself. Will feels himself acknowledge Hannibal having tried to be restrained with dinner - some fancy pasta dish he calls 'modified' to imply it's crappier than he'd make it at home. He feels Hannibal acknowledge Will's appreciation, too.

He watches him eat, like he always has, without the strange red glint in his eye Will had never known how to decode before he went to prison. Now, it's simple pleasure.

"It's delicious," Will says, "thank you."

Hannibal drinks in his praise like it’s wine in his glass.

"You're welcome, Will. I'm glad for the opportunity." He sets his napkin aside when he's finished and stands. "But I ought to help clean this up and take Clementine home and get her settled."

"I can clean up, don't worry." Will shrugs.

"Oh, but I -"

"You cooked, I'll clean." Interrupting is undeniably rude, but Will just needs him to listen. No, to obey.

A short nod. "You need to be alone now?"

"Please," Will murmurs.

"Very well." He moves to the grocery bag on the counter, the logo on the front an embossed paper affair that Will has never even heard of, and extracts a small harness.

"For Clem, in the car," he explains, when Will’s expression betrays his incredulity.

Will nods seriously, keeping his smile at bay. "Good call."

Because he's not entirely sadistic, he holds the puppy while Hannibal figures out how to put it on her. It's all very efficient, except for when Clem chews at straps and wiggles in their hands.

Hannibal, seeming slightly taken aback by how such a small task can take so long, finally gets her properly fitted into the harness, and he picks up his things and bids Will a polite good evening.

Despite himself, Will can't help but smile as, through the slightly steamed kitchen window, he watches Hannibal buckle the dog into the passenger seat of the Bentley. Perversely, he has a way of making everything charming.

"Even murder," Will mutters to himself, watching Hannibal get in the car with one last glance back at Will. That thought makes him shudder at himself, repulsed. Spending too much time with Hannibal is like having lightning running under his skin. He needs to ground the current before he sees him again.

*

Clementine, Hannibal discovers on his drive home, does not care for Puccini, but will tolerate Mozart. He also discovers that the idea of owning a dog pleases him more than he anticipated, though perhaps it's more the scenario - Will's conditions, and Will's fragile trust in him.

Still, anything he chooses to do, he will do to the best of his ability.

At the house, he takes her briefly into the yard before taking her up to his room with the bag of new puppy supplies. When her bed is set up and several toys and puppy pads scattered around, he looks at her where she's parading around.

"You will have a schedule," he tells her, softly but firmly.

She looks up at him, and then trots over to his feet.

"Sit, Clementine," he tells her.

Instead, she starts to mouth at his shoelaces.

"Ne," he tells her in Lithuanian.

When she ignores him, he bends and gently detaches her, kneeling down to undo his laces and remove temptation. He resolves to start teaching her commands in earnest as soon as possible, but for now it merely amuses him to speak to her in his first language. He undresses and makes sure his dressing room door is shut tightly before returning to his bedroom and showing her to her bed.

It's endearing to watch her rolling around on the cushion, too small to really do any damage to anything yet.

It's less endearing at three in the morning.

"Mažasis," he mutters, turning on a light to investigate the noise, pausing at the sight of her scrabbling desperately at the side of the bed.

"Ne," he says sternly. She persists though, a series of little whines seeming piercing in the quiet night. He stares fixedly at the wall for a moment before climbing out of bed, scooping her up and taking her back to her own, sinking down onto the floor next to it.

A little petting and soothing gets her lying down again, and he stays until she's fallen asleep, curious to find himself reluctant to leave her. She's just so...helpless.

When he’s satisfied that she’s not going to wake, he forces himself back up and to bed, where she lets him sleep until six, and the routine repeats again, and he accepts defeat around seven. He trudges downstairs with her, feeds her in the kitchen, and takes unexpectedly delight at watching her tail wag excitedly as she eats like she hasn’t before. The shop he'd visited for supplies had carried a selection of premium foods, though he does intend to try the recipe Will has given him. She's possibly too young for such things yet, of course. He has a great deal of reading to do.

With a faint sigh, he moves to put the coffee on to drip, and slides a dish of _pain perdu_ into the oven to bake before opening Tattle Crime on his tablet and standing with it in one hand, coffee in the other for a few minutes.

Distraction comes in the form of a small dog paddling in her water bowl, and he’s indisposed cleaning up after her and drying her for a while before he takes her out for a quick bathroom break.

His mind drifts to Will absently as he watches Clementine explore the flagging in the water garden area, his legs barring her from the steps down to the carefully maintained grass and various plants he has yet to consider the hazards of.

Will had been full of little hidden blades yesterday, gleaming in the red light of his mind. He's won a few unplanned confessions out of Hannibal, now. It’s nearly impossible to resist. Being known by Will is a far more appetising prospect than being caught by him, and that's what would have happened. Hannibal can see it, like a phantom performance across the stage of his mind; the details are interchangeable, but Hannibal knows he would have laid a most lovely trap.

Looking at the wagging little tail before him, he's not sure he hadn't walked into another one. He's Will's now, in many ways, and inordinately pleased for the fact, finding himself quite willing to give him anything he wants.

The whirling aurora of his thoughts snag then, and circle back to Alana Bloom with no small amount of intrigue; the way her face had changed when she'd seen the truth of what Hannibal had told her had fascinated him. She’d hardly looked surprised, more _gutted_ by her own blindness. Hannibal had found... a certain pleasure in it. Will's voice too, the tone, more certain than it'd ever been.

_"Leave Alana. Keep her out of this."_

It leaves a loose end, especially if she decides to pursue the reasoning behind their sudden truce, but Hannibal is curious whether her desire for justice will win out over self-preservation. Whether the sting of rejection will drive her away.

He's still struck by Will's eyes when he'd told him his conditions, pale in the light, lit with righteous anger. So much potential in him, but that will have to wait for now - what he needs is control, and Hannibal is willing to give it to him. At least, so long as their truce holds.

He's stirred from his reflection by a shrill yap: Clem, standing in the kitchen now, where she's made a puddle. Hannibal wonders how she could directly choose inside while he cleans up. He's fortunate, he supposes, to plenty of disposable gloves. And patience.

He carries another cup of coffee back to the patio after constructing a makeshift blockade for the steps, watching her run as he considers Will's motivations further. He's too raw to acknowledge any reciprocation, Hannibal thinks, but he'd responded to Hannibal's touch the way he always has, grateful and yearning.

No one touches him, Hannibal muses, determined to do it more. No one _loves_ him, not in the singular way he can, though he hazards Will fancies him incapable. He has underestimated Hannibal before, though, and sorely reaped the fallout. Hannibal hopes they understand one another better now.

In a flurry of excitable limbs, Clementine runs up the steps and throws herself into Hannibal's lap, pawing at him in a rush and nearly knocking his coffee cup from his hands.

“Nebūk grubus,” he says faintly, lifting her off him and setting her down on the flags, making a few vague attempts at getting her to sit before she clambers back onto his knee pointedly, tumbling onto her back, pink belly in view. He gives up, gently rubbing her stomach. "Insistent thing, aren't you, Clementine."

Will hadn't asked about her name, last night. He's sure he will, in time.

As Hannibal strokes Clem's ears, he watches her little tail wag fast even as she mouths at his hands. It's a curious sensation; she seems pleased just to be in contact with him.

 _Touch-deprived_ , he thinks.

He dedicates a few minutes to petting her all over, watching her tail wag faster. She seems to grow even more emphatic, and then suddenly relax. Having exhausted her, he carries her inside and sets her on a second bed that he's placed in his kitchen.

He pours more coffee; eats breakfast. It's curiously pleasing to know there is another living thing in the house. It reminds him of Abigail, briefly.

He picks up the phone and calls a coded number.

"Hannibal," she answers hesitantly. In the background, he can hear the dull roar of the sea, like the windows are open. "Is everything all right?"

"Everything is fine. Do you need anything?"

"No, I'm fine; I'm just working on those term papers we talked about last time."

"That's good. I went to visit Will yesterday."

"He's out?"

"He is. The Chesapeake Ripper has been apprehended."

"Has he," she says quietly.

"He has."

"Well, congratulations to the FBI," she says. "What - does that mean for me?"

"I'm not sure yet." He hums. "For the time being, we'll continue with our plan to enrol you in the spring semester at McGill under your new identity."

"All right." She pauses, a faint pattering suggesting she's drumming her fingers. "How is he?"

"Angry. He gave me a puppy."

"Is that a euphemism?"

"Not in the slightest. Her name is Clementine, and I am to take very good care of her, under penalty of death."

Abigail's uncertain silence speaks multitudes.

"Thoughts, Miss Hobbs?"

"Sounds like he's testing you."

"And you are unsure of my chances," he finishes.

"It's not that. You can make yourself do anything." He makes a sound of assent. "Doing things and meaning them are... different."

"You're correct, of course."

Abigail sighs. "Clementine, huh?"

"Do you recognize it from your studies?"

"It's familiar. Care to elaborate?"

"Roman," he tells her. "The goddess of forgiveness."

The noise she makes is oddly pitying.

"Does he know?"

"There's not much he doesn't know."

"He doesn't know about me."

Hannibal can't quite parse her tone. "Not yet."

"Well. I trust you'll know the right moment for that surprise." That, at least, is mostly wry.

"Yes. I'll come and visit you soon."

"I'll be here. Writing."

"I look forward to reading your work."

"Thanks, Doctor," she murmurs.

He hangs up after a final goodbye, smiling to himself. Abigail had sounded reasonably content. He's not deluded enough to miss her obvious desire to see Will, for perspective as much as familiarity: the house on the cliff is as isolated as it gets. Abigail has a bank card, the internet, a car, and everything she could possibly need to keep herself entertained, but her loneliness still tastes like bitter aniseed in the back of Hannibal's mouth. He's done this to her; as much as to himself.

And to Will. Now he has to make it right.

He looks down at the dark bundle of fur in the corner. Clem is dozing peacefully, paws twitching every now and then. He has other things he ought to be concentrating on - patients, social appointments - but Will and this small animal have occupied his thoughts so long.

"I have office hours today," he says absently, apparently to Clem. His mind has already moved on to the crate he'd purchased at the shop and the calm instructions from the shopkeeper. Even so, he feels that reluctance again.

How odd.

Without examining it too closely, he picks Clem up and takes her up to the bathroom while he gets washed and dressed, and then he loads the flat-packed crate into the back of the Bentley and clips her into her harness again: she can sit in the crate while he has his sessions today.

If it goes badly, he'll adjust.

*

It goes unexpectedly well.

He walks Clementine around the block between appointments. She whines a few times when she gets bored, but overall is a source of interest to his clients. Hannibal finds it a system that works relatively well for the time being.

He also starts reading books about training. Clementine seems intelligent, so he's optimistic, and so by the evening of the following Wednesday, she can sit and stay. He's working on the latter when he hears someone enter his waiting room, and glances at the clock. Seven-thirty.

When he’s herded Clementine gently back into her crate, he opens the door, and Will is waiting, groomed and pressed and emanating calm.

"I've come to resume my therapy," he tells Hannibal, eyes dark and steady. Hannibal shows him into the office, where he takes his usual seat, no ushering or pacing needed.

"I wasn't sure I would ever see you in this room again," Hannibal murmurs.

"I wasn't sure you would either."

"But you're here. Where shall we start?"

Will opens his mouth, then pauses as he catches sight of Clem's crate.

"You have the puppy here?"

"I can't leave her alone for the time I'm here."

"You could," Will points out, standing and going over to the crate like he just can't help himself.

"I wouldn't like to." He looks at Will, kneeling and offering his fingers to Clem, and says, "You can let her out."

"You're sure? She might have an accident."

Hannibal looks at his appointment book, then closes it softly. "Then we will take her for a walk instead."

Out in the brisk dusk, Will's curls glow in the street lights. He paces next to Hannibal, watching him handle the leash, testing Clementine's new obedience skills at the street corners.

"She's doing good. Already looks bigger."

"She likes my cooking," Hannibal says, "Thank you for your dog food recipe."

"You're welcome." Will smiles faintly. "Very domestic of you," he adds like he can't help it.

"I've shirked it for a long time."

"Have you?"

"Domestication has always been my greatest fear, Will."

"For a man who loves his comforts as much as you?"

"Domestication and sartorialism are not the same, Will."

"I suppose not." He puts his hands deep in his pockets. "So you think I'm trying to domesticate you as a hunter."

"Put me on a leash, perhaps."

They both look down at Clementine.

"My dogs don't walk on a leash."

"No, they're even more well-trained than that."

"We have a mutually beneficial relationship." Will pauses, glances up at Hannibal again. "But they all started with a leash, until I could trust them."

Hannibal wets his lips. "And if they got off the leash?"

"We'd go back to basics."

They stop to let Clem sniff in a patch of grass, Hannibal seeking Will's gaze, finding it iron grey and firm.

"Why did you really come tonight, Will?" Hannibal murmurs. They're flooded in an amber ring of light, stood close.

"I was thinking about you," Will says, softly.

"What were you thinking of?"

"I was thinking of how you were getting on with the dog. And I was thinking of... everything. My mind is constantly occupied by you. You wander around the detritus like you're examining your handiwork."

"Is it in such a shambles as all that?" Hannibal asks softly.

Will just cuts him a look of those cold ocean eyes again.

"No forts," he murmurs, more a reminder than an accusation.

Hannibal fights to curb his desire to reach out and cup Will's skull; the mind inside, like a cosmos swirling in a teacup. He fights the equally insistent urge to go down on his knees, right here in the street.

"Let me be your fort," he whispers.

"You'll protect me this time?"

"Always."

Will climbs the few steps back to his office door, stands looking down on him for a moment.

"And what do you want from me?"

"See me," Hannibal tells him softly. "Don't look away."

"Love you?" Will asks, softly, voice weak.

"Could you?" Hannibal replies. He sees Will's eyes go cool again, and his voice is like the lick of a whip now.

"Why," he whispers, "do you think I wanted to kill you so badly?"

His wrathful love. Hannibal takes a deep breath, dragging the scent of it into his lungs.

"Shall we go back inside?" he murmurs.

"All right," Will nods. He scoops up Clementine and carries her in, and Hannibal lets him. Will dutifully dries her off before he lets her down on the floors as Hannibal steps over to his sideboard and, with only a glance at Will for permission, pours them both a glass of wine.

Will accepts it with a sigh as he sits back down, Clem coming over to sniff at his shoes.

"Hello sweetheart," he murmurs, scooping her up, delivering a thorough belly rub as she lolls in his lap.

Hannibal allows himself to watch as thoroughly as he desires. As ever, Will is enchanting.

"Have you satisfied yourself that she's well taken care of?" he murmurs.

"I didn't think you were going to abuse this dog, Hannibal."

"I would hope not."

Will scratches Clem's neck gently.

"I didn't think you'd bring her to your office," he repeats softly.

"I like knowing where she is."

Whether that's meaningful to Will or not, he just hums. "How's she do at night?"

"She doesn't like to be alone."

"Did you let her sleep in your bed?" Will sounds stern but somehow conflicted.

"No, she has a bed in my room."

He lets the silence stretch, then fixes Will with an assessing look. "Is this what you need as therapy, Will?"

"To have a bed in your room?" He raises an eyebrow.

"To seek me out just to talk about my dog," Hannibal corrects dryly.

"It's nice to discuss something normal, I guess."

"Like friends do?" Hannibal asks mildly.

Will cuts him another telling glance. "Is that what we are?"

"That's up to you, I suppose." He strolls by on his way to tend the fire, touches a hand to Will's shoulder. Will bites his lip, and catches his hand. Hannibal stops immediately. "Will?"

"Come here," Will says, quietly.

Hannibal obediently turns to face him and takes a step closer. He doesn't tug at his trapped hand. He just waits.

Will stays silent, watching him, looking as though he's turning a thought over. With a bare ripple of hesitation, Hannibal inhales, and then slowly crouches in front of him.

He watches Will struggle to bring words to the fore, before saying, "Sit."

Silence. A curl of pleasure unwinds in Hannibal, compelling him down onto his knees proper. As soon as he settles, Will's hand shifts to his nape. It's a perverse echo of Hannibal's touches. He's surprised to find Will so gentle.

"You have it bad, don't you?" Will whispers.

"I think you know the answer to that."

With palpable consideration, Will strokes through his hair, disrupting it from the style, eyes dark and focused.

"You think I know plenty, but maybe I'm just starting to realize." A soft breath of confusion. "I always knew you were interested, I just didn't know the extent."

"I could have been clear. I chose not to be."

"Because you were distracted by more amusing matters."

Hannibal doesn't deny it. "More intriguing, certainly."

"That makes me angry," Will murmurs.

"I have to admit, I didn't realise what it would cost me." He touches Will's knee to get his attention.

Will is still touching his hair. "Mm?"

Hannibal lays his hand there, wrist scar prominent. Will looks down; reaches with his other hand to skim a fingertip over the scar. Clem sleepily raises a head and licks Hannibal's fingers.

"Do you consider us even?" Hannibal murmurs.

"Do you?"

"I am on my knees for you," Hannibal murmurs. "What does that tell you?"

"That you don't think we're even."

"And when we are?"

"Perhaps you won't feel compelled to kneel."

Hannibal closes his eyes for a moment. "Perhaps you're right."

He does, still. Perhaps he shouldn't be surprised. He sighs, and slowly drops his forehead against Will's knee. It's a display of trust, more than submission. Baring his throat against a trembling blade.

Will slides his hand into his hair again, voice shaky when he breathes Hannibal's name. He can feel Clem nosing at his ear, and that makes both of them laugh a little.

"Hard to talk misdeeds and purgation with a puppy between us," Will muses.

"Yet it must be talked about."

"And so, I suppose another invitation to your dinner table is imminent."

"Will you accept?"

A small hesitation. "Well, the Ripper has been caught."

"Indeed, and in such dramatic fashion."

Another sigh. Will strokes his hair again automatically, and then in turn, Clementine's ears.

"I've always enjoyed what you've served, Hannibal," Will murmurs.

"Under false pretences."

Will hums. "Pick a date, and I will be there. I'll bring the wine."

"Very well." He glances at his watch. "Your session time has come and gone, but if you'd like to stay..."

"Then what?"

"I'd like to go home. You're welcome to come with me."

Will looks down at him.

"Do you think that's wise?"

"You mean given our current positions?"

"Metaphorically."

Hannibal shrugs carefully. "I think we are both in control of our actions, and that neither has anything to gain by injuring the other. As discussed, I believe the ball is in your court."

"I'll come," Will says, evidently to his own surprise as well as Hannibal's.

"I can bring you back for your car later, if you'd like."

"I'll follow you," Will replies.

"Very well." Hannibal hesitates to contradict Will, in this mood. Tentative accord beneath a surface friction. He waits, and then Will smiles like baring teeth.

"You can stand up now, Hannibal."

Released, he does so, gathering his things and Clem's and allowing Will to precede them out the door while he locks up. He carries her under his arm, handing her off to Hannibal in the parking lot, who buckles her in while Will unlocks his own car. They don't speak.

Hannibal feels Will's scrutiny, like a clinging cobweb on his skin, all the way home.

Once there, Will devotes his attention to Clementine for a few minutes. While she's fed and watered and generally fussed, Hannibal turns his attention to dinner.

He notices after a while that Will has joined him in the kitchen, but he watches him work quietly, without any real suspicion.

"Would you like another glass of wine?"

"Sure," Will murmurs. "I'll pour, you look busy."

The way he moves around Hannibal's kitchen with a new certainty is... stirring. He pours them both a measure. Hannibal finds he must split his attention between his food and Will. It's unusual he has any desire to, but it seems Will isn't an audience anymore, Hannibal is his, and they both know it.

"So how are you finding her?" Will asks.

"Sweet," Hannibal murmurs. "Eager to please."

"I meant having her."

"I talk to her," he replies distractedly, mincing some beef. "I like her," he adds, to assuage Will's doubt.

"You do?"

"Very much." He eyes Will steadily. "I'm sure you're surprised."

"I'm... considering the reasons you like her."

Hannibal allows his lips to twitch. "Finding contrasts?"

"And comparisons."

"I see."

Will sips his wine, watching the puppy.

"What's for dinner?" He diverts.

"Seared scallops with beef and vegetable pastry puffs," Hannibal says promptly.

"Sounds delicious."

"I hope so. It won't be long." He moves to take out a heavy skillet and the marinating scallops.

"Can I do anything?" Will asks.

Hannibal thinks for a moment, then hands him the vegetables and minced beef. "Mix this, and spoon it into the shells?" He retrieves them from the refrigerator.

Will washes his hands, rolls up his shirt sleeves and gets to work.

Hannibal puts the tray into the oven when it's ready, testing his skillet to make sure it's up to temperature. "This will cook fast. I hope you're hungry."

"I could eat," Will says, sipping his wine again. His nonchalance seems calculated. It still hits like a dart; reminds Hannibal that Will isn't here in the same admiring capacity he might have once been. Hannibal always loved having Will as a guest at his table. Now the veil has been lifted, he'll have to bring something new to the table, literally and figuratively.

When their food is ready, he motions Will to the table, plating and serving him as formally as he ever has.

"Thank you," Will says, smoothing his napkin out in his lap as ever.

He makes maddeningly polite conversation through their meal. As much patience as he usually has for their games, this one is testing Hannibal, his mind periodically ticking back to kneeling before Will in his office; his fingers in his hair. Abruptly, he wants to bring them back to that moment, flush with potential.

Unbidden, his eyes flick to Will's exposed throat; his clavicles. He sets his knife and fork down slowly, and takes a mouthful of his wine.

"Will," he murmurs, "I still feel compelled to kneel."

The satisfaction of seeing Will's brows quirk in surprise is only brief, knocked back into breathlessness when he sets his own cutlery down. He shifts his chair back from the table at a slight angle.

"Is that so?"

"Shall I demonstrate?"

"By all means."

He picks his wineglass up and sips as he watches Hannibal kneel. His expression barely changes when Hannibal reaches out to touch his thighs, tentative and polite, so Hannibal skims his fingers farther up his inseam. That gets a raised eyebrow, and a sharp setting down of his glass when Hannibal delicately starts to undo his flies.

He doesn't say no, but Hannibal wants more than that. He tugs him down in his seat smoothly, spreading his flies open and touching at the band of Will's waistband, waiting.

"Say yes, Will," he whispers.

A wind of many emotions turns the weather vane in Will, its spin and jolt plain as day on his face, until it finally solidified into breathless realisation.

"Yes, Hannibal," he whispers.

Hannibal doesn't wait, he tucks a hand under the crisp cotton. The scent and heat of Will is better than any lightning strike. He's not hard yet, but Hannibal likes it better that way. He guides his velvety shaft gently into his mouth and caresses with his tongue, and when his nose is pressed into the crease of his hip, he inhales the purest scent of Will, and his lashes flutter involuntarily.

"Hannibal," Will breathes, fingers settling on his crown.

There’s no answer that he can't convey with the swirl of his tongue, the movement making Will's stomach hitch with his breath. Working Will with his lips, Hannibal waits for the touch of fingers in his hair, delighted when the fastening grasp is unexpectedly firm. It makes him nearly gasp.

With aching, tangible relish, Will pulls him back off his glistening cock, and then gently, smoothly back down. It’s easy to allow it, to be guided... used. This is why he's here, Hannibal thinks. It's more wonderful than anything else he's ever tasted, in any capacity. The essence of Will, and he a worshipper at the altar. He whirls his tongue again slowly, swallowing as Will swells, breath quickening.

"Could never quite picture you like this," he tells Hannibal, hips arching just a fraction, "but you suit it."

Hannibal makes a noise in his throat. _Keep talking_. Will does.

"There's a way that you wear disorder that's - entirely as effortless as all your other disguises, but it feels more real." He tugs more sharply at Hannibal's hair, touch somehow still tender. "Is this a mask now? Or is it you?"

He can't speak; can only lift his gaze of red to Will's ocean blue, his lips shiny, swollen like he's bitten them, as stunning as Hannibal has ever dreamed him. He'd like to look unaffected, Hannibal thinks, but his body tells a different story - the same story Hannibal's tells, despite his many disciplines.

He wants this so badly. More than he's wanted anything for a long, long time. He closes his eyes and revels in the aching jaw and spit slick chin and pressure in his throat. Above, Will's breath catches as he watches him, his hand still slowly but firmly guiding.

"Yeah," he says again, softly, "you look good like this."

Hannibal thinks it might be the most outright praise Will has ever gifted him, and he barely knows what to think of it. He just wants more.

Will is thickening against his lips and tongue now, molten hot and silky. He arches up, and Hannibal feels him fill the back of his throat in a smooth snap of his hips, dutifully opening wide, letting him fuck up into his mouth. Will's thumbs stroking softly at his temples are sufficient reward. So is the feeling of him so deep inside.

When he’s fully hard, filling out with every stroke of Hannibal's mouth, his tension holding him taut, his breathing changes, voice lower and calmer.

"You're just so good when you can't talk, aren't you? Never can get you to stop running your mouth usually." He sighs. "Should have tried this sooner." Another pause; Hannibal hears him lick his lips. "I guess you already thought of it."

Hannibal hums, delighted to be needled by him; at the continued clutch of hands in his hair. Will tastes even more perfect than before, acid sharp and salt bitter, an exceptionally nuanced and entirely singular blend.

He lets another soft noise fall from his lips when Hannibal traces his slit with his tongue; down to his frenulum, massaging gently under the crown, until Will’s hand tightens in his hair again and pulls him back more fully onto his cock.

Hannibal opens up again, breathing through his nose, letting Will guide him. The wet noise of his mouth around Will's cock is fuel to the fire in his core. He can feel himself now, hard and heavy behind his own fly. He swallows slowly around Will, feeling his hand tighten in an answering clench, and shifts closer, thumbs caressing. A silent request for Hannibal to go faster is issued with gentle pressure on the top of his head, and he obeys instantly, sinking down as far as he can.

Will swears softly under his breath, holding him as he rocks up this time.

"That's good."

He's right. It is good. Hannibal can tell that Will is getting close, already slicker, saltier. The taste of him keeps changing, and Hannibal only craves it more. He grips his thighs tighter, bobs his head faster, while tears gather in the corners of his eyes.

"Jesus, Hannibal," Will breathes, and Hannibal groans at another little bloom of bitterness in the back of his throat: he can _taste_ that Will's close.

With grateful abandon, he gives himself over to the tug and stretch; sucks and swallows until Will is straining in his seat.

When his stomach finally creases with tension, he tries to push Hannibal back, and it’s all Hannibal can do to dig his nails in; shake his head desperately: _let me taste._

"Hannibal," Will says it plaintively, gasping and grabbing at the back of his jacket as he's overwhelmed, thighs trembling as he’s wracked with sensation.

Hannibal pulls off just enough to keep the head of his cock between his lips as he spills, enough to taste every drop; to stroke with his tongue until Will is trembling. He can feel it in his fingers as Will finally pushes him back.

He's breathing hard, looking wrecked and pink, and he gasps great breaths for a few long, aching moments before the focus comes back to his eyes, clearing away the haze.

"Are you hard, Hannibal?" he mutters.

He nods immediately, unable to even contemplate dishonesty in the state he's in.

"Do you want to come?" Will whispers, in the same intense tone. A stoic, certain energy lies beneath it, a Leviathan under the surface of his dark waters.

Hannibal finds it all too easy to debase himself for Will; to give him his power.

"Please," he says.

"Stay there, and touch yourself," Will orders softly, gaze unwavering when Hannibal unbuttons his slacks. "Go on," he urges, voice dangerous. "No one else is touching you but yourself."

There was really no doubt about that. Wetting his lips, Hannibal frees his aching cock with a sigh, curling a hand around himself, meeting his gaze in a silent question; a challenge. Will doesn't look away, just nods when Hannibal uncertainty passes his hand over his skin, lips parting at the drag.

He can feel his heart jackhammering in his chest, and the first real stroke of his cock makes his eyes flutter closed.

"Is it good?" Will murmurs silkily.

"More than." He breathes, strokes, never moving from his place at Will's feet, waiting to see if he'll be touched, or merely watched – though he doesn’t think Will would mislead him about that.

"Faster," is all Will says, his own breaths barely disturbed now.

He picks up speed, hand tightening a bit, forcing his eyes back up to Will's face. He has to see. Will, he thinks, is looking deep into Hannibal’s waters in turn.

"What do you see?" He whispers.

Will licks his lips, brow furrowing gently. "A crown of antlers."

"Not thorns?"

A little sneer at that. "Is that how you see yourself, Hannibal? Hanging for our sins?"

Hannibal drops his gaze again. "I think despite more literal interpretations, we can both agree that only one of us has paid for the other's sins."

"Stop," is all Will says to that, voice clear like a bell and jarring.

Hannibal does stop. He stops his hand too, looks up at Will. The silent set of his jaw is deafening in its communication of his fury.

"Will," he whispers.

He can see his struggle to push it down; to move forward from useless backtracking, until -

"Stroke yourself again, however you like. Stop when you think you're going to come."

Hannibal nods. "Yes, Will."

Slowly, he swallows, and then resumes his motions, feeling Will's eyes on him all the while, the simmering rage still sits just below the surface. Reptilian, Hannibal basks in the heat of it, regardless of its cause.

The pass of his hand is growing slicker under Will's attention, especially with the prickle of tension. He knows he could reach the peak in a matter of moments, but then he has to stop, doesn't he?

He lets out a soft moan, and Will's own lips part as he watches Hannibal slow his hand.

"Close?"

"Yes, Will," he murmurs.

"Wait," Will tells him.

"Until?"

"Until I say."

Hannibal is sure he doesn't mean minutes, or even hours. He swallows steadily, and nods.

"And you want me to stay like this?"

"On your knees, but you can button up. You won't touch yourself again until I say."

"Very well." He takes his time neatening and fastening his clothing.

Will's silence pins him when he debates moving, and so he simply meets his eyes and waits.

A full minute ticks by before Will wets his lips again.

"Where is Abigail's body?"

Hannibal feels no surprise, that this is the blade he's picked, but a ripple of curiosity goes through him at the staging of this particular question. "Is this a honeytrap, Will?"

"Is that what you expect from me?"

"You were always a dedicated police officer, then a profiler. Convincing me you'd left the Bureau and extracting the truth from me would be... a tactical move."

"You're not wrong about that," Will replies, "but I think you know I'd play a longer game if I was trying to entrap you. Certainly, wouldn’t have given you a dog if I was planning on hauling you off to prison."

Albeit absurd, Hannibal knows it’s true. Will’s rage isn’t biblical now, no more righteousness – just hurt.

Hannibal takes a slow breath. "She's somewhere safe, but I can't tell you where yet."

"She's somewhere safe," Will repeats. Far be it from him to miss the ambiguity of that statement. He'll be cycling through hope, doubt, possibilities. Miriam Lass. All the others. But it seems only fair that Hannibal withholds something too.

Another shaky inhale. They both know Will could push, or insist, but they both know what other outcomes that might yield, as well.

"Stand up, Hannibal," he says finally.

Hannibal pushes himself gracefully to his feet and goes as Will beckons him closer, movements loose but careful.

Will takes another sip of his wine, and then sets it aside once more, attention focusing now on Hannibal's clothes. He stands up, and levels with him. The pressure of his body is gentle but insistent, just a few short steps back to the wall. Hannibal goes, but keeps a watchful eye.

Will smiles a twist of a grin. "I'm going to make you ruin this suit," he murmurs.

"Is that so?"

Hannibal feels a firm hand cup him through the wool, making him arch and gasp automatically.

"Well, not strictly." The tip of Will's nose skims Hannibal's jaw. "You are. Rock."

Hannibal licks his lips, scenting Will's curls. No ambiguity there. Just a command. He rolls his hips obediently. Only momentarily abated in their conversational interim, his arousal unfurls again in force, rendering him breathless.

"Keep going," Will whispers. "This is all you get."

Hannibal can't restrain a soft noise at that, yearning and delighted all at once. He ruts up shamelessly, finding his rhythm and his motion. It's near-painful to get the right pressure, delicious even so, his hands carefully at his sides, his shoulders and hips angled with tension. Turning his nose closer into Will's collar is tolerated, and so are soft noises when several slip out between his lips.

"Faster," Will says eventually, voice crisp, and it only shakes on a slight moan as Hannibal shifts his feet wider, pressing his palms against the wallpaper and dragging himself shamelessly against Will’s hand.

The angle is difficult, and he shifts his hand finally, grasping Will's sleeve in silent request to cave forward. Will grunts irritably and thrusts a thigh in between Hannibal's, only a slight mercy – but he won't deny he's grateful.

"Will-"

"How close are you?"

"Imminently." He stalls, seized by the impending disappointment of being told to stop. A considering silence against his ear, and then Will exhales slow.

"Go on," he says silkily.

Hannibal closes his eyes, and shivers when Will's other hand delicately cups his shoulder. It's not being held, but it's close enough. The sheer heat of him, along with the steady pressure, finally starts the long unspooling of the knot between Hannibal's hips.

He doesn't make a noise, merely releases a caught breath as the crushing pressure of it falls on him. Will does though, short and surprised and not unaffected, fingers flexing against Hannibal’s sides as Hannibal comes, the touch pulsing like electricity with the still-surging current of his orgasm.

"Oh, Will," he breathes. They stay like that for a moment, both panting hard, and Hannibal feels the brush of Will's face against his hair, like he's considering hiding a kiss. Then he steps back.

"I have to get back to the dogs," he mutters, brushing himself down.

"I understand," Hannibal says, supporting himself against the wall, unexpectedly shaky.

“You need anything?” Will checks, like it pains him to do so – to care.

“No, I’m quite – quite at my leisure.” It’s true. He needs to regroup, but that’s a solitary undertaking.

Will looks around, and then opens the dining room door.

"Thanks for dinner," he says stiffly, and then he's gone, their mingled scents hanging in the air in his wake.

Eyes closed to commit it to memory, Hannibal takes in a deep breath, before allowing himself to move: he has to tend to Clementine. Then, he has to tend to himself.

*

Will spends the following week determinedly thinking and not thinking about what had transpired at Hannibal's dinner table, he knows how to keep himself busy, after all.

And so, apparently, does Hannibal. He doesn't pay Will any visits, or even politely prompt him like he used to before. Apparently, he’s busy. Preoccupied?

No matter. Will is too, fielding calls from Jack Crawford and reluctantly entertaining Freddie Lounds when she insists, which is quite enough work for two people. Even so, he can't help but find Hannibal's absence... suspicious. For someone who purports to want Will's forgiveness so very badly, he’s conspicuous in his absence.

Irritated by the realisation, Will finds himself early to his next appointment, and after an irate glance at the clock, he settles to wait in his car, parked down the street. He's not sure what impulse brought him here, and as ever, he's not quite sure how to reconcile all the seeping, rotting resentment he has inside with the genuine anticipation of seeing Hannibal again. It feels like lancing a wound, watching for the glitter of the scalpel.

Rubbing grit from his eyes, Will takes an unsteady breath as he remembers Hannibal's wine-colored eyes and lips in the sparsely lit dining room; the noise he'd made at tasting Will's pleasure. He's never heard him sound like that before. He's never heard anything like it, before.

His own sexuality has always been somewhat of a grey area to him, not interesting enough to be explored outside of the rare opportunities presented to him, more academic than anything else. Hannibal's specific, bald desire to please him had been puzzling and moving at once; more igniting then any drunken fumble in motel rooms on business for the FBI. He can only let it happen.

Thoughts about summoning the devil with his name alone linger in Will's mind as he sees Hannibal emerge from the nearby park with Clementine, her little form swaddled in an expensive looking plaid doggy jacket.

He walks with an easy stride, led by the eager plaid-covered form. Despite himself, Will can't restrain his smile, though he hides it from himself by dragging his hand over his mouth. He'd suspect it was planned if he thought he was that predictable.

As it is, he's fairly confident he's caught Hannibal unawares, walking his dog in the faint drizzle in a well-maintained Baltimore city park.

Will lets them pass him by and re-enter Hannibal's office before he gets out of his car, his heart unpleasantly active in his chest. Perhaps Hannibal will be able to smell it on him, he muses, or the faint salt of associative want. But that’s okay. Will is done with secrets.

He waits in the waiting room, listening to the faint sounds of Hannibal murmuring to Clementine in what must be his native tongue.

The door snicks open precisely at seven-thirty.

"Will. Please come in."

"Thank you," Will stands up and allows himself to be waved inside. He makes a beeline for Clem, sitting angelically in her crate even with the door open, chewing a toy.

"Hey beautiful girl," he greets, laughing at her unstoppable excitement when he kneels down to accept enthusiastic kisses.

"When you are finished, please close the door," Hannibal says politely.

"Sure, just getting in my cuddles."

Hannibal speaks an unfamiliar word, and Will is delighted when Clem rolls over, waving her paws in the air.

"Oh, that's good." He scratches her belly in reward.

"Yes, she's quite intelligent."

"She is, and still so young to be so disciplined."

He glances up to catch the tail-end of Hannibal’s smile.

"She has plenty of less obedient moments."

Will laughs, kissing her on the head before coaxing her back into the kennel.

"Yeah? How many shoes?"

"None," Hannibal says promptly. "A Second Empire ottoman," he adds resignedly. Will waits, and Hannibal allows, with weariness in his voice, "And a belt."

Biting back a smile, Will closes up the crate and stands, brushing down his knees.

"She's getting big."

"Indeed. Please have a seat."

Will does, fidgeting a bit. A silence, and then Hannibal tilts his head, settling in his own seat and waiting for elaboration.

"Not sure how appropriate it is, sitting here like this after last week."

"No?"

"You think it is?"

"I think we now have the unique opportunity to choose what is appropriate for us."

"I suppose you're right." Will runs a hand through his hair and, restless, stands again.

"I don't know if I can let you back in, Hannibal," he murmurs.

A slow blink at that.

"That's your prerogative."

"That's it?" Will says automatically.

He sees the coolness in Hannibal’s body language, torn between hurt and understanding.

"What else am I to say?"

"You could convince me."

"That I deserve access to your mind?"

"That you already have it. No forts, remember?"

"Then what should I say, Will? What do you need from me?" He uncrosses his elegant legs, stands to join Will. "You've told me how to approach forgiveness, and no more."

"Maybe I'm feeling a little thrown off by the imbalance."

"You’ve been imbalanced for a long time now. Our relationship started imbalanced, and it’s imbalanced now. How can I help you balance it?"

"I want equal access."

"You've always had it," Hannibal murmurs.

"No," Will says, icily, "I haven't." He advances on Hannibal before he can help himself. "You made sure of that."

"I wanted you to see me," Hannibal replies.

"You put your hand inside the pool of my mind and thrashed it until you saw waves," Will sneers. He takes another step, and Hannibal stays moored in the throes of his temper, a little boat bobbing amongst the tides he created.

"Because I was fascinated by it," he assures.

"Just like everybody else."

"Not like everybody else." He sounds put out about it.

"No, not quite." Their toes touch. Will refuses to look away. "You got in. Made yourself comfortable. Built me all new rooms to explore."

"I hope never to find my way out again." His eyes are liquid in this light, gaze plainly admiring.

A knot rises in Will's throat unexpectedly.

"Every second spent with you is spent questioning your motives," he whispers, "I don't want to question them anymore."

A nod of assent.

"All my motives have realigned."

"Where are they leading?"

"Just to you," Hannibal murmurs, "just to knowing you."

Will grits his teeth. "You want to know me?"

"Yes, Will. Very much."

"Then you will. Turn around."

Hannibal hesitates, just briefly. It’s the first time Will’s seen it. Even at the end of Will’s gun, he’d been open.

"Now," Will presses, and is suffused in knowing heat as Hannibal steels himself and does as he's told.

Will slides his hands up underneath Hannibal's coat, between warm wool and warmer skin veiled by cotton, and hears Hannibal's breath hitch.

"Take it off," Will tells him. He watches Hannibal unbutton and slowly slide it off obediently, and then he crowds him into the desk even further. Hannibal seems pleased just to let him crowd, maximising their body contact where possible without compunction.

"Is this knowing you?" he asks.

"This is the me that you made."

Hannibal hums. "Then you're a culmination of the both of us. I gave you parts of me."

"Did you? Am I Frankenstein's monster?"

"Are you a monster, Will?"

He takes another deep breath that Will can feel, a slow expansion of his ribs. Suddenly all the malice drains out of him with understanding. "You don't think I'm a monster."

"I think you are as nature intended you to be."

"Now that you've had your say?"

"What will you say?" Hannibal asks.

Will takes stock of himself, his resolve faltering with his own uncertainty. He's so preoccupied with an answer, he doesn't stop Hannibal from turning in his arms, watching him with evident concern.

"I want you to show me," Will manages finally, "how you feel."

"I am trying," Hannibal replies. He raises a hand; touches Will's cheek. "Let me."

Will regards him silently for a moment, then nods, and Hannibal draws him in and kisses him. He accepts Will’s wounded noise into his mouth; his hands coming up unbidden to Hannibal's shoulders, gripping like he had before, breath leaving him entirely. It's a kiss he'd never thought to feel, and certainly not one of the ways he's allowed himself to picture them.

All of a sudden, it feels like too much, and he pulls back fast, breathing hard.

"Will?"

Another gulp of air, and then presses in again, heedless of consequences. This time he controls the pace, and Hannibal lets him easily, leaning back, their hips aligning. Incentivised by the flood of pleasure, Will kisses him deeper, filthier, arching close. If this is how Hannibal feels, they're in accord.

"This was it," he says quickly, breaking away but staying close, "from the start?"

Eyes warm, Hannibal cups his face, gaze a wary affirmative. It's pleasing to see him wary.

"You could have just told me," Will whispers.

The words make his eyelids dip.

"I had underestimated..."

"Underestimated what?"

"Feeling your absence. I'm sure you understand - my attachment was undesirable, at first."

Will growls softly.

"So you tried to put me out of the way."

"Yes," Hannibal murmurs.

Will hasn't let go of him. He pushes himself somehow closer, until Hannibal has to brace himself against his desktop. "I won't be put aside again," he whispers.

"Nor should you be," Hannibal agrees. When Will presses in and bites the side of his neck, he tilts his head for it with a slow sigh. His hands are vice-tight on Will’s shoulders now, his breaths quaking. Still, he seems inordinately self-satisfied.

Will hates it. He _wants_ him off balance.

The thought makes him fumble for Hannibal's zipper, movements agitated. He gets the fly open, shoving the wool down with shaking hands, all the way to his calves, underwear too, then he pats the desk.

"Sit."

Breath hissing audibly, Hannibal complies, managing to look demure and graceful and only making the faintest noise when Will crouches, yanking the shoe and slacks off one leg to stand between Hannibal's knees.

One hand shifts to Will's curls, and he lets it stay there, just pausing for a moment to look down at him in his entirety, long graceful legs and his rising cock peeking obscenely from between his shirt tails, the bridge of his nose flushed. Will has to take a long moment, to look his fill. To remember.

Then, he pushes his face back into the crook of his shoulder, hands finding his bare hips and hitching him to the edge of the desk so they press together, the motion jolting a soft moan out of Hannibal that buzzes in Will’s ear.

"Tell me," Will growls against the tender skin of his throat. "Tell me you want me inside you again."

"I want you in every way you deem fit to allow it."

"Then ask." Will pushes himself back once more to meet his eyes.

Hannibal holds his gaze, breathless and dishevelled already.

"Please." He stretches backward into his desk drawer, handing Will a small bottle of lotion with a flush blooming down his throat as Will scrutinises it at length, until Hannibal adds, "I would like to go without protection, unless you object."

Will laughs humorlessly. He doesn't even remember the last time he'd had sex.

"Works for me."

He gives in to his urge to wrap a hand around Hannibal's tie and pull him into another quick, messy kiss, his throat bobbing against the silk is all too appealing. Then he pulls at the knot until it loosens, and he can get at the button underneath. Hannibal doesn't move, just lets him unbutton his shirt to the lip of his waistcoat; divert to that instead. He seems unwilling to intervene with Will this frantic to find more skin, to uncover him.

"Will," he says eventually, hands coming up to cup his face, redirecting his attentions.

They kiss, and Will groans at how it grounds him immediately, half frustrated again at further evidence Hannibal knows just how to handle him.

"It's all right," Hannibal says softly, "I'm here. I'm not going. I'm yours."

"Mine," Will repeats, scrabbling for the bottle, patience for buttons expired.

"Yours." He hitches his knees up around Will's shoulders elegantly as they sprawl more thoroughly on the desk for support, breath catching when Will smears lotion between his cheeks before he unzips himself, fumbling out his cock.

Hannibal reaches down to stroke himself as he watches, and Will can feel the weight of his attention as he slicks himself, hard and flushed, embarrassingly sensitive already. He swallows heavily, concentrating on the head for a moment, caught up in just feeling _good_ for a moment. He wants so badly to feel good.

When he looks up, Hannibal is staring. He reaches to get a gentle hand in Will's hair again, prompting.

"Now, Will."

Swallowing the knot in his throat, Will lets himself be coaxed in close by Hannibal's nudging heels, trousers still hanging carelessly from one leg. Hand steadying, guiding, Will starts to press himself against Hannibal, jaw setting.

They both groan a bit when the head breaches him. Will isn't gentle, but Hannibal seems just as fierce with his need, pulling Will down into another biting kiss as he sinks in deep.

His fingers wrap into Will's curls, and Will's brace on either side of his hips on the desk.

"God," he breathes, "fuck-"

It's so good. He can't breathe. He watches Hannibal's lips part to reveal his sharp teeth when he takes the first few rocks with a bare moan. Will wants to lick them. God. He feels depraved as soon as he has his hands on this man. He's clumsier than he'd like, greedy for the taste of him; the clenching heat. He snaps his hips forward hard, brutal and fast, and keeps his eyes on those teeth.

Hannibal's hands roam restlessly over his body. His breaths are low and vocal, the faintest curve of a smile tucked at the corner of his mouth before he tips his head back and arches into Will's motions.

Will gives in, and mouths down his sternum, stubble rasping through chest hair. The noise that he startles out of Hannibal is exactly as he'd imagined, short and controlled and thoroughly delighted.

Will pants into his skin and grasps his thighs, pulling hard as he pounds into him. The sounds their skin makes are obscene; Will's cries sound foreign to him, rough and guttural, each one making Hannibal clutch him a bit tighter. He seems on the edge of a precipice, hanging between self-restraint and the truth.

Will can fling them both over it if he must.

He turns his head to bite hard at Hannibal's throat, thrilled when it calls forth a ragged cry; Hannibal’s fingers fisting in Will's hair, hips bucking up sharply.

 _Mine_ , Will thinks again, not knowing if it's more possessive or simply...responsible. He doesn't care which. He wants it all. He's never wanted anything more. Not even to be normal.

"Will," Hannibal says softly, as he moves under the force of his punishing thrusts, hair wild and skin flushed, "you're astonishing."

He's not nearly astonishing enough, if Hannibal's still using big words. Gripping his hips with renewed determination, Will snaps forward so hard the desk slides. This time he gets the sound he's looking for: a shout, bitten off and frantic.

"Yes," he croons; sees Hannibal's answering smile.

" _Again_ , Will."

He hardly needs encouragement. He sucks at the bitten skin at the base of Hannibal's throat and rolls his hips, hard and rhythmic, sighing when Hannibal's next moan sounds faintly surprised. Will lets his fingers tighten, revelling in it: that’s what he wants. His spine is starting to feel hot and liquid.

"Touch yourself," he instructs.

Hannibal nods. His jaw brushes Will's temple. The first pass of his hand is nearly hesitant, and Will looks down to see him. Despite his restraint, he can see he's hard and flush, cockhead gleaming with fluid as he gently strokes down his foreskin.

"Good," he murmurs, mouth slipping back to Hannibal's neck. “You can, I want you to feel good.”

That gets him another little sound, but when he tips his hips and strokes deeper, slower, he feels Hannibal start to shake.

" _Will._ "

"Yes – yes, good," Will grits, holding the angle.

He feels Hannibal's hand moving against his belly and moves to kiss him again fiercely, their mouths fitted together perfectly, little sounds escaping them both. It's more than Will can stand.

With a bitten-off noise, he pounds in with his hips until he's pumping into Hannibal in thick pulses, the sensation blinding, numbing, his hold on Hannibal verging on thoughtless as he surges the last of it out. The sounds their skin makes are liquid suction, Hannibal’s picking up speed as Will’s slow. He inhales deeply against the crook of Hannibal’s neck, shaking from the force of his orgasm, weak-kneed.

"Good," Hannibal praises softly, pressing a kiss to his temple, "you're sublime, Will."

Will makes a soft sound he doesn't really intend.

"You need to come," he whispers, doggedly refusing to acknowledge that his stamina could use some work. Years of self-imposed - and then Hannibal imposed - abstinence will do that to you.

"Yes," Hannibal agrees quietly. He gasps faintly when Will pulls out but stays where he is while Will tucks himself away, legs spread obscenely, his cock and hole glistening and flush.

Will looks, and looks, and finally touches his thigh.

"Stand up."

His long bare legs are shaky as he lowers his feet to the floorboards, reassuringly unsteady when Will kneels down in front of him.

“Tell me what you want.”

"Will..." So polite, even now. "May I have your fingers?"

Will makes a low noise and reaches up, slides into his own mess with two firm fingers.

He's so occupied by the feeling, the rush of renewed arousal in his own core, that for a moment it's all he can do, stroking in and twisting; exploring. Above him, Hannibal arches his hips and gives a single, pleased "Oh".

He bears down automatically, so Will gives him a few deep, beckoning presses, pleased at his moans. Feeling charitable, he leans in to lick over the head of Hannibal’s cock as he fucks him with his fingers.

It's been approximately a decade since he last did this, and he’s missed the taste; the dirty satisfaction of it, and how it grounds him. With a sigh, he settles into it easily now, sucking wet and soft at the head and feeling Hannibal shaking slightly beneath him. His hands curl into Will's hair again, breaths quick and pleading, so Will curls his fingers again, tongue pressing.

Another soft murmur of his name. Will looks up to see.

Hair hanging in his eyes, a stark shadow cast on his face, Hannibal looks wrecked. It makes a hot pleasure coil in Will’s chest: he's willing to accept Hannibal any way as long as he can see the human in him, too.

It's taken this. But now he can.

At the thought, he eases himself further down onto Hannibal's cock, throat flickering, and strokes his fingers with aimed purpose inside him: he wants another moan. What he gets is a shuddering cry, and Hannibal squeezing around his fingers; his hips jolting forward until he’s so deep that Will can't even taste him starting to come. He can feel it though, throat convulsing and eyes tearing, but he doesn't let up. He won't.

Through his stuttering repetitions of Will’s name, Hannibal's hands stay tight in his hair, cradling, stroking while his hips rock out the last of it, body clenching down like he’s trying to knead that spot inside him entirely tender.

When his shakes subside, Will pulls back far enough to swallow, panting until he can breathe again. His hands skate down Hannibal’s thighs, resting there as he flops back onto his ass on the floor. Elegant even know, Hannibal lowers himself over him, settling in his lap, both of them half-naked and trembling.

Will's arms go around Hannibal’s waist automatically as they pant into one another’s space.

"Hannibal..."

Hannibal just presses their mouths together. It's entirely too sweet in contrast to earlier's vicious ministrations. Will cradles his face in his hands with a long sigh, helpless against a wave of feeling. He feels so out of control around this man.

"I've never been cruel before," he whispers. "Used to be the only thing I liked about myself."

"Is it cruelty, or merely a painful love?" Hannibal murmurs.

"It feels like fumbling for control," Will admits.

"You are in control, Will."

"For now, maybe."

"Do you require it to continue?"

"I don't know. Can I change my mind?"

"Of course." Hannibal's expression is, as ever, strangely kind.

Part of Will wants to seethe, but the rest of him is overwhelmed with need, especially as he feels Hannibal card gentle fingers through his hair.

"May I clean up, and put my trousers back on?" Hannibal says then, glibly.

"I think we ought to," Will agrees. He wets his lips, and then leans and presses another soft kiss to Hannibal's mouth, just to see the faint freeze-then-recover of his surprise. It feels _good_ , to catch him off-guard.

"Okay," he mutters, "let's go."

They help one another up and over to the small attached powder room, the concept of privacy diminished considerably between them now. Will watches Hannibal put himself back together through the ajar bathroom door, though he withdraws slightly when it's time for Will to do the same.

"Looked good with your pants around one leg," Will comments idly when he returns. Mostly he does it for a reaction, is pleased by the small wince it receives.

"I'd love to see your rendition of the same," is all Hannibal says, with a hint of acid sly in his voice.

Is this flirting? Will doesn't know how to do that.

"You'll have to incentivise me, then," he says archly.

"I see." Hannibal smiles. "How about dinner?"

"Tonight?" Will murmurs.

"If it suits."

"Last time, we didn't so much have dinner as christen your dining room," Will points out.

"We will endeavour to be more dedicated to the food on our plates tonight." Hannibal raises his chin. "I can come to you, if you prefer."

Yes, Will thinks. It's safer.

"All right. Bring Clementine." He looks over at her in her crate, fast asleep and thankfully oblivious to their activities.

"Of course," Hannibal murmurs, refastening his tie with careful hands.

Thrown by the sight, Will stalls, strangled by the sudden departure of intimacy once more.

Hannibal stops as well, mirroring him, either intentionally or perhaps not. Like he can read Will's mind, he steps in to kiss him, slow and gentle.

"I'm looking forward to it," he murmurs.

Will laughs.

"I'm sure."

He is too, even though he's not entirely happy about that.

"Would you prefer to be alone-?"

That's an unfair question. Will takes a breath, and shakes his head.

"I'm never really alone, anymore. You're always with me one way or the other. Might as well be in a way I can keep my eye on you."

"Are you my keeper, then?"

"I couldn't possibly hope to keep you, I won't even try." Will pulls on his jacket distractedly. He thinks Hannibal looks pleased. He's honestly not sure.

"If anyone could, you could."

Will shrugs, watching Hannibal gather Clementine's things.

"I'm ready," he tells Will when he has her under one arm, and Will opens the door up for him to head out to the cars.

*

At the end of his work week, Hannibal packs the Bentley with a few prepared meals and Clementine and drives toward the cliff house.

If Will is curious of his lack of invitations to Hannibal's table, he isn't letting on, gone to ground since their last attempt at civility at Will's had ended in more stains on Hannibal's clothes.

It's becoming habitual, an unorthodox but eloquent solution to their emotional impasse. Hannibal submits to Will's desires, and Will feels secure enough to let him in.

Will seems as moved by physical contact as he ever has, but now he openly craves it. Perhaps empathy is catching, because Hannibal finds, to his surprised delight, he craves it too.

The novelty of it occupies him on the drive. When he arrives, he takes Clem on a quick wander on the safe path down the hill before making his way back to let himself in.

Abigail, face clean and young, freckles out in full force, appears from the back bedrooms after a moment, perhaps drawn by the click of claws on hard floors. Hannibal thinks she looks like a summer’s day.

"Oh my god," she says, her face lighting up. It takes him a moment to parse it, but he sees genuine delight on her face for the first time in a long while as she goes to her knees on the rug by the piano and gathers Clementine into her arms.

Pleased, he busies himself with bringing in food carriers. Excited barking and Abigail's laughter follow him, and the sound is warming. He's isolated her on purpose, of course, but it isn't as if she's a prisoner.

He pauses at that thought and forces himself to take a step toward responsibility: all of this is his doing.

 _My design_ , says the Will who occupies his memory palace.

When Hannibal closes his eyes, that Will tilts his head at him now, mirroring Hannibal like he does. His foil - his match. Present-day Will is slippery, deadly, like his time in the BSHCI has given him too much insight to Hannibal, and too much time to sharpen the edges of his blades. In a way, it's fascinating, but that part of Hannibal is easily ignored by another part which... simply craves the same contact Will does.

"So, how was your week?" Abigail interrupts his musing gently, carrying Clem into the kitchen, still laughing softly when the puppy wriggles in her arms; licks her jaw and mouth.

"Pleasant enough, Abigail, and yours?"

"Oh, y'know. Educational."

"And now I've brought you a puppy to play with."

"She's beautiful," Abigail says softly, stroking her silken ears.

"Yes," Hannibal agrees, because she is. "Will seems very pleased with her progress, too."

"Does he." It's not quite a question, but he gets a glance from Abigail's pale eyes. His mind circles around all the available options, and he decides a strain of honesty will work best.

"We've become closer since his incarceration. Before I was his friend, and his doctor, and then his adversary. Now, I'm something else."

"Something other than his friend? What could that be?”

"I'm not entirely sure yet," Hannibal says, starting to prepare dinner. He feels Abigail's interest as she notices he's cooking fish.

"Are you practicing recipes on me?"

"Something lighter seemed in order."

She seems to see that as an admission, but she's easily distracted by the puppy when Hannibal asks her to feed Clem. Satisfied that her questions have subsided for now, Hannibal continues with dinner. When things are underway, he finds Clem at his feet, and Abigail at the counter, pinching matchsticked carrots.

He asks her a few more questions about her coursework, knowing that her tutor would have contacted him if there was cause for concern, but wanting to hear her perspective.

"Please," she says dryly, after humouring him a while, "can we talk about something else? It's all I've thought about for weeks."

"As you wish."

He bends to address Clem, holding a hand out to her and smiling when she puts her paw in his palm. "Geras darbas, Clementine."

"Oh no, that's too cute. What did you just say to her? Is that -"

"Yes, Lithuanian. I was congratulating her on a job well done. Here." He takes another splinter of carrot and feeds it to Clem, amused at the crunching; her wagging little tail.

Abigail seems amused by him in turn.

"You love her," she says, almost astonished.

"Is that so hard to believe?"

"Not... I didn't mean to offend you," she mutters, "but usually you love things with... agenda."

"Loving something with hope of reciprocation is an agenda, in that case."

She absorbs that. Hannibal feels her silent recognition as he turns back to the counter, Clem sat on his foot.

"Something has happened..." she says, uncertainly.

Hannibal keeps chopping, knife flashing. He contemplates his answer, and then sighs.

"Yes."

"You don't have to tell me," she says quickly.

"But you'd like to know."

"If you'd like to tell me."

Ruminating on the right words, Hannibal sets down his knife and picks Clementine up, allowing her to burrow under his chin.

"Certain obstacles between Will and I are being navigated at last. He seems hesitantly ready to allow me to earn his forgiveness."

Abigail tucks her hair nervously behind her remaining ear. Hannibal is in talks with a plastic surgeon about reconstruction, but it will mean a trip to Brazil, and he’d like her to settle first.

"So you think I could see him-?"

"Soon, I think."

She nods. "And - you don't think he'll be mad at me?"

"At you? No, of course not. At me perhaps. And deservedly so."

She shrugs in agreement. Not that he would expect anything less.

"But he... he's okay?" Abigail asks.

"He's made some changes to his life," Hannibal murmurs.

"What does that mean?"

"No more teaching, no more FBI at all. Unfortunately, he seems reluctant still to leave his home, except for appointments with me."

She sighs. "So he's even less sociable than before."

"At the moment, yes."

"And you think him... socialising with you... is good for him? He's prone to paranoia, probably even more so now."

"It's his choice."

That makes her laugh, quickly aborted.

"No one has a choice around you, Hannibal," she whispers. She doesn't sound resentful, just matter of fact, but it still cuts him with the cruelty of truth he seldom confronts in himself.

He rests his cheek on Clem's head for a moment. Then, he strokes her ears once more and hands her to Abigail.

"Would you take her and occupy her a while? Dinner will spoil if I don't give it some attention. Won't be long now."

Abigail lets him retreat without comment, and he washes his hands and stirs his sauce. His mind, as ever, returns to Will in his little boat of a house. He's still safe there, but not from Hannibal. It's an unexpectedly cold, guilty realisation. Hannibal doesn't much care for it.

Preoccupied with the thought, he plates and serves their dinner with much less than his usual enjoyment. All the while, the Will in his mind sits alone, by Hannibal's doing.

"I won't be staying after dinner," he tells Abigail as they eat.

"Oh." She regards him curiously. "All right."

"I apologize," he adds, somewhat stiffly. He's being drawn in a different direction.

"It's fine. I understand."

He suspects she does.

They eat, and pleasantly converse, but they both know his attentions have drifted. He doesn't remember the last time they haven't at some point, like an anchor that won’t let him roam too far from the scent of dog hair, and warmth, and retched Old Spice.

After dinner, he drives back toward Baltimore, dialling Will's number on hands free. He sounds groggy when he picks up.

"Hannibal?" That narrow-mouthed version of his name, like something heavy leans against it. Hannibal closes his eyes briefly at the stop light he's come to and commits it to memory.

"Will, I disturbed you?"

"No, I. Fell asleep on the couch. What time is it?"

"Just past ten. Are you well?"

"Fine," he says shortly. "What...can I do for you?"

"That depends on you. Would you humour me?"

"I'll try."

"Would you believe that I was missing you?"

"Yes," Will mumbles after a moment of silence. He seems to rummage for the truth before he says, “Is mutual obsession missing one another? Or just being vexed and preoccupied at one another's absence?"

"Your word choices imply both selfishness and agreement."

"Well, I did use the word ‘mutual’."

"Indeed. Which is why I hope, when I ask if I may come see you, that you will say yes."

A crackle, and Will sighs.

"Okay, but I'm tired." Meaning he's sleeping badly.

"And I have Clementine with me."

Another pause.

"You can stay, if you want. Been fixing up the house. Moved the bed upstairs. S'why I'm on the couch."

"I'd like that," Hannibal murmurs.

"Okay. How long?"

"An hour, perhaps. Will you stay up for me?"

A strangely vulnerable question, for him. Will takes pity.

"I'll fix you a drink."

"Thank you."

Will rings off with a sleepy goodbye, and Hannibal again ruminates on the afterglow of his voice.

In the dark rib cage of his office while he'd been in prison, Hannibal had sat alone across from Will's chair - he thought of it as such - and witnessed the shape of his absence, and felt a dreadful regret. He'd spoken to it, and heard Will's blame; his blunt, malevolent fury. It had filled the air with dark, whirling motes.

The shape of Will tilts its head now in the passenger seat beside him, and says, _I'll fix you a drink_.

It feels like forgiveness, even though it looks like a lure.

In the passenger seat proper, Clementine snores, secure in her harness. Hannibal glances over at her little furred body and wonders just what he's been lured into.

A single lamp burns in the living room window when Hannibal finally arrives in Wolf Trap. Through the window he can clearly see Will in repose on the couch, Winston's head under his hand, chin on his chest and drink tilted like he's drifting. He'd like to stand and watch, and maybe he can, he reasons, but the tempting curls against Will's nape are too far from his fingers. If he enters, he knows, he'll have permission to touch.

As gently as he can, he tries the door, and finds it unlocked. As he lets himself and Clementine inside, Will automatically stirs, with more wariness than would have probably occurred had he been awake.

"Just us," Hannibal offers, unbuckling Clem of her harness and letting her go to greet the others, watching her little body go down in submissive greeting to the barrage of noses even as her tail furiously wags. Will's pack accepts her much more readily now that they've learned that she goes home with Hannibal.

Turning his attention to arguably more important matters, he takes in Will's soft sweatshirt; pyjama pants. He's rumpled and endearing with it as he gets up and goes to the kitchen with a barely distinguishable rumble of greeting.

He comes back with a glass in each hand. Hannibal takes a kiss instead. It's thrilling to see the blush rise in Will's cheeks and ears.

"Taking liberties," he says, half a warning but mostly, as far as Hannibal can tell, playful. "Here's your drink. It's an old fashioned."

"Brandy or whiskey?" Hannibal asks, though he can guess.

"Whiskey." Will goes to say hello to Clem, sitting himself back on the couch. Hannibal has truly rarely seen him so informal - except for that first morning before Garrett Jacob Hobbs' death.

He was a different person then, and Hannibal loved that version of him, too, even raw and unpolished. It's strange to acknowledge how fierce and immediate his fixation was. It's taken a long time to urge it into reciprocation. He's still wary of missteps, but Will seems to have come to some sort of conclusion in his absence. Or at least a plateau where he's willing to rest.

"Are you going to stand there all night?" He asks Hannibal now, quietly.

"No," Hannibal says. "No, I'm not."

He takes the seat next to Will, and satisfied, Will slumps back with his legs stretched out, Clem rolling animatedly on his belly and chewing his teasing fingers. To keep from staring, Hannibal concentrates on the flavors of his drink for a moment. Sharp, brisk, hot and cold at once. It reminds him of someone.

When he looks, Will is gently massaging Clementine's stomach, to her plain euphoria. Several of his own dogs mill around hopefully, and Winston comes to prop his chin on Will's leg.

"Sorry buddy," Will tells him softly, reaching to scruff his ears.

Smiling, Hannibal pets the ones who wander past his own seat. When Zoe puts her paws against his leg, for once Will doesn't tell her to get down.

They don't talk for a long time.

Eventually, Hannibal wets his lips.

"I'd like to take you somewhere."

"Now?" Will says sleepily.

"No, not now."

"When?" He doesn't ask where.

"Next weekend."

"Just for the day?"

"A night, too."

"All right," Will nods slowly. Hannibal double takes, he can't help it. He didn't expect it would be so easy. "Don't look at me like that. I got you the spare bed ready, whenever you want."

And there's the catch. However disciplined he is, his disappointment must show. Will frowns faintly.

"Hannibal -" he starts.

"I can go if you prefer," Hannibal says, truthfully. He can. He's used to spending his evenings alone too, especially now.

"I wouldn't prefer."

"Then we stay."

Will looks at him, eyes heavy lidded and slightly sad.

"Okay. Stay."

"Thank you."

Sighing, Will rolls Clementine into the crook of his arm.

"Is it difficult, taking my feelings into consideration?"

"No," Hannibal admits. "No, it's quite easy."

"Surprised by that?"

"No," he murmurs. "I'm merely out of practice." He reaches over to touch Clementine's furry flank. "Do you imagine I do not love?"

"No," he says it quickly, and certainly, "no, I know you love."

Hannibal touches his arm, wanting to see his eyes. When Will looks, he sees plain exhaustion there, but deep longing, too.

They both know what they need, but it's Will that beckons him close, and Hannibal that goes with a sense of relief. The first kiss is very gentle; different than any they've shared so far. It's most like the one Hannibal stole earlier - soft, grateful in a way. Will's hand comes up into his hair, not grasping, merely touching. Not so different from how he'd touched Clem - his thumb even strokes behind Hannibal's ear.

Hannibal is not impervious. With a soft hum, he tastes the seam of Will's lips; shivers when his tongue meets his own, and holds still for Will's slow intrusion. As the kiss deepens, he relaxes: Will doesn't seem to have any agenda, just contact for the sake of it. An unexpected development.

It speaks of comfort Hannibal might have doubted even when last they touched - here, in this house, his little boat. It's thrilling to feel him unfurl, warm and sleepy and loose, like a flower.

"I'm tired," he warns again eventually, voice rasping, "I might fall asleep if we keep this up."

"I'll put you to bed," Hannibal murmurs back.

"That sounds promising." His voice sounds like it's squeezing through playfulness again, sly and soft.

"What promises would you like?"

"That's a big question, Hannibal."

"We can work up to it."

"Why don't you go first."

"All I have ever wanted is for you to be true to yourself, Will."

"You think I'm not being true to myself?"

"I think you've begun."

"Hannibal..." Will's voice is delicate now. "I think we've established from my time in the BSHCI that I can be moved to acts of violence. Your influence on me only extends so far, and the grip I have on my sense of self is tighter than ever, now. You don't have encephalitis opening a door into my personality, anymore. No Ripper to dangle. Whatever develops now... has to be mine alone, do you understand?"

"I do, and I only want to witness it."

"As I've witnessed you," Will reminds.

"You're the only one who has," Hannibal murmurs.

Will pulls him into another soft kiss. "And I hope to remain the only one."

"You're all I want." It's true. The only full, unfettered truth Hannibal has ever told. He's not sure if Will believes him, but he will. Hannibal will prove it.

Against him, Will softly sighs. "You're thinking loudly."

"I'm thinking of you."

"Tell me what you're thinking."

"Ask me for more," Hannibal urges.

"More what?"

"More of anything, Will. Please."

"What could I ask for that you don't already give me?" He touches Hannibal's cheek. Then skims his thumb to his lower lip, pressing gently. "I don’t want to ask you for anything you can't give."

It's not enough, but he'll accept it.

"There is one thing you could do…" Will says, and that edge comes back into his voice, a smile tucked at the corner of his lips.

"Tell me."

"You could stop thinking so hard," Will whispers, "and make me feel good." It's soft, but it's still an order.

Heat stirs in Hannibal. He nods. "Put Clementine down.”

Will glances at her, dozing in the crook of his arm. "God, I'm a monster," he jokes, “this dog is gonna be scarred from how many times she’s seen us having sex.”

"Indeed, a crime most heinous." Gently, Hannibal helps him ease her out of his arms without disturbing her, carrying her to the beds by the space heater, Will's pack following. Then he turns.

"Settle," Will tells the others.

Hannibal notices Winston is the one who lies with Clementine. He thinks Will notices too.

"Atta boy," he murmurs, and then he rubs his eyes, beckoning for Hannibal with his other hand, like he’s one of the pack being permitted back onto the sofa. Amused, Hannibal goes, letting Will pull him down now.

"You're emotional tonight, Will," he observes, not unkindly. "More so than usual."

"Feeling things was never my problem."

"Even for me?"

"Feeling things for you was definitely never my problem."

"What was the problem?" He settles against him, smiling when Will's warm hand slides up under his waistcoat, against his back.

"The kinds of feelings that took over."

"And what were those?"

"Murderous anger?" Will hazards.

"And are they prevalent still, or do you fear their reprise? Or anticipate it?"

"No, I think we've moved beyond all that."

"So you're simply observing of them."

"I don't want either of us to forget, no. But I don't want to feel that anymore."

"Allow me to provide you an alternative," Hannibal suggests, nosing at his jaw.

"Do your worst." He tilts his head, and sighs low and trembling as Hannibal kisses down his throat. "Mmh, that's good."

In full agreement, Hannibal starts to slide the hem of his sweatshirt up carefully, and Will arches to let him remove it. For a rare moment, Hannibal allows himself to look at him fully when it's off; the evidence of an exercise regime Hannibal knows of only from the evidence of his olfactory inspections of Will's home on occasions past; the scars on his shoulder from various injuries. His barely-tamed curls, and his startlingly blue eyes in the soft amber dark. He can't stop looking.

"Hannibal..." Will whispers.

"I've never seen anything like you."

"What, pyjama pants and slipper socks?"

"You, Will. Just you."

A visible swallow at that.

"Tell me."

"You look like a painting made to come to warm, breathing life. And trust me when I say I am - familiar with that."

Will reaches out and touches his cheek, a fine tremor noticeable there.

"One of your paintings," he murmurs.

"The only one I care about."

Will hesitates a moment, then wets his lips with the tip of his tongue.

"Being the object of your obsession is somewhat intoxicating."

"Is it," Hannibal replies, hand making its way to Will's collarbones.

"Sure. Though that might have just been the sodium thiopental talking." His voice is suddenly dry.

Pinned by his gaze, Hannibal purses his lips but doesn't look away.

"Do you know why I pushed?"

"Because that's what you _do_." Will gives a derisive little laugh, and then swallows, and Hannibal's fingers follow the bob of his throat. "Though I think part of you wanted to be proud of me for surviving you."

Hannibal presses his face to the crook of his neck, breathing in.

"I'm incredibly proud, Will. And thankful."

"Thankful I'm still here?"

"Not only that."

"What else?"

"That I can do this." Hannibal leans down for a kiss, shivering as their bodies press. Will's hands tighten on his back now, starting to tug his shirt out of his slacks.

Hannibal can't even part from him long enough to undress, just starts to rock against him, their breaths misting skin, bodies caved together like parentheses. It feels so good, in so many now-familiar ways.

Will makes a sweet, high sound when the angle is just right, jaw slacking, and Hannibal nips at the sharp curve, repeating the motion. It's gorgeous to taste the shivers his efforts have wrought. Will is too sleepy to be anything but open. Accepting, and yielding, but not helpless.

Hannibal is happy to give him whatever he wants, and what Will wants is this.

One handed, the other still tangled in Will’s hair, Hannibal works to free them both from their pants, smiling when Will obligingly arches to let him slide his sweats around his thighs, a blush crawling up his neck. Hannibal merely unfastens his own buttons and shoves slacks and underwear away, angling them to slide together.

"Kinda like you messy," Will grunts, gasping on the first hot drag.

"I believe that."

"What gave me away."

"The way you react when I let you mess me up."

Will chuckles at that. "I'm not opposed to being messed up in turn."

"I know that too."

"Is there - _aah_ \- anything you don't know?"

"Very little."

"God," Will scoffs slightly, "faster-"

Hannibal does as he’s bid, twisting his hand to entice another moan.

"Fuck," Will grits, "fuck-"

Hannibal kisses the corner of his mouth, letting him arch against him. It's not unaffecting, feeling his slick cock moving against seldom-touched skin, nor hearing his noises escape from pink, bitten lips.

"Will." Hannibal pushes himself into the hot, welcoming arch of his hips. "You’re stunning."

"Hannibal," Will breathes, the name sounding like a caress while his fingers bite. He keeps rocking, finding a more concise rhythm now. Their bodies both react to the same driving need.

"God," Will whines softly. He pants it over again into Hannibal's mouth, their rutting turning more determined now, the air between them hot. Each motion takes them further. Will is gloriously burnished with sweat and flush, their bodies twisting and shifting to stay together until they’re sprawled half on their sides, still rocking, the tell-tale tension in Will's thighs denoting his closeness. Hannibal murmurs his name, lips skimming down his neck.

"Hannibal," Will groans weakly, riding his cock faster and slicker against the hot dip where thigh meets groin.

Hannibal pets distractedly through his hair, meeting him note-for-note.

"It's all right," he breathes, "it's all right." He himself feels his body coiling hotly.

Will's hands come up to frame his face, his breath coming in harsh bursts.

"Show me," he whispers.

"Not before you."

"Hannibal... Please," he breathes.

Closing his eyes, Hannibal lets Will's fingers curling into his hair anchor him as he works the last few frenetic slides against sweat-slick skin, until everything draws tight, white-hot, and he feels his release smear and flood between their bellies. It feels too much pleasure for him to hold, so much so he's almost relieved when it starts to ebb; when control comes back, and the raw desperation of loving Will feels containable again. When it becomes about Will instead of about him.

He opens his eyes, and Will's are bright, lit with amber stars from the low light. He looks close to tears. Hannibal cradles him close.

"You're beautiful," Will mutters. "Being with you, it's -" Hannibal waits, still breathing hard until Will continues. "It feels too big to keep inside."

So strange, to have his own thoughts echoed back to him. Truly, he never knew he could love so completely.

"You don't have to keep it inside, Will. Not with me."

Will whines softly, and then gasps when Hannibal curls a hand around him and gives a few encouraging strokes, his forehead dropping gratefully to Hannibal's shoulder.

"Fuck... _Hannibal_..."

It sounds ripped from him, like so many other times when Hannibal’s physical ministrations have had distinctly different connotations. He finds he much prefers these ones.

It's barely moments before he's straining, arching, and starting to shake into orgasm with a cry. Hannibal cradles him through it, squeezing every drop of pleasure out, unable to take his eyes off the way Will bares his teeth, face creased in something like pain. He feels it too, Hannibal knows. The terrible hunger. The knowledge that there is only one thing that will quiet it.

After they’re both wrung out, they stay pressed together for longer than strictly necessary, until cementation becomes a very real risk. Then Hannibal gets up before Will tries to.

He goes upstairs to Will's little white bathroom, running some water and cleaning himself up, taking Will down a towel and a hot cloth when he's done.

He himself is thoroughly dishevelled as well. Nothing to be done about that, except to retrieve his pyjamas.

He can sense Will's amusement as he watches him go and get his bag from by the door, the dogs raising their heads in interest.

"Will you be joining me upstairs?" Hannibal asks politely.

"Sure." Will picks up his drink, taking a sip as he starts to shut off the lights.

Hannibal smiles to himself. He's never seen Will get into bed; never seen sleep descend on him. He won't tonight, but he'll be aware of it, and perhaps he’ll scent the moment the air changes; hormones and sweat and warmth.

They tangle briefly at the top of the stairs after Hannibal has taken care of his ablutions, the two of them caught between the two bedroom doors.

"Will Clem be okay downstairs-?" Will asks softly.

"I'll check on her later, but she's with the others.”

They're stood close, feeling one another's warmth. Will's fingers are cool from his glass when he touches Hannibal's elbow.

"Sorry in advance if I wake you," he murmurs.

"Never be sorry."

He lifts a hand to touch his hair. Will even lets him smooth it, but then he pulls back, giving nothing more.

"Good night, Hannibal."

"Good night." _I love you_ , he thinks in the privacy of his mind.

He listens at his door to the sounds of Will performing his nightly routines, teeth brushing and face washing, and thinks warmly of the progress they've made. Will has let him in - let them in. Maybe not to his bed, not yet. But into his sanctuary, nonetheless.

And Hannibal doesn't even deserve it, not as far as Will knows. No, he's let him in undeserving, except for his cooperation with those three conditions. Like he did the first time.

Briefly, Hannibal entertains the idea of knocking on his door - but that would be rude, wouldn't it? And Hannibal is never rude.

With a slow sigh, he sits on the guest bed, examining the bedspread - new, he thinks, from the smell. He imagines Will selecting each piece, thinking of guests - thinking of him. Definitely thinking of him; he doesn't think Will would ever stretch to this sort of thing usually, fine cotton and an embroidered bedspread, nothing like the kind of extravagant Hannibal might lean toward but still tasteful. It feels like regard, like care.

With a sigh, he pulls back the covers and, settling, closes his eyes. His wanderings in his memory palace grow heady, and then come sharply back into focus at the distant sound of whimpering. With a murmur, he pushes himself out of bed.

Clementine cries at the door at the bottom of the stairs, noises high and soft. He pads silently down the wooden steps, gathering her up and bringing her back to the guest room, sighing at the twist of unhappiness her discomfort had wrought him. She seems to quiet just being in his arms, though she does deliver a thorough cleaning of his neck and hands.

“Labukas, mylimoji,” he murmurs, gentling her with his hands as he gets back into bed. He lets her rest on his chest when he’s against the pillows. He'll just settle her, then take her back down, he reasons. He can give her time.

He wakes up in the early hours, aware it's Will's movements that have roused him. Clementine is still curled on his chest, and when he looks down at her blearily, he can't help but smile at her wagging tail.

"Labas rytas, Clementine," he whispers. She licks at his skin, but lets him set her down on the mattress as he sits up without too much fuss.

He listens for Will, hearing him talking quietly downstairs - probably to the dogs. He'll know where Clem has gone when he sees her absent from the pack, Hannibal assumes – and then Hannibal will probably catch hell for it.

He's looking forward to it immensely.

He listens for feet and goes to the door when he hears them approach, momentarily concerned: Will's face is pensive when he sees him on the landing. When he sees Clementine, he immediately relaxes.

"Oh, thank god. I was worried she'd gotten in somewhere."

"No, I brought her up. Is everything else all right?"

"Just a dream," Will shrugs.

Hannibal reaches for him, and once again, Will let's him. "Going back to sleep?"

"With my girl," Hannibal teases gently. He’s pleased when Will smiles.

"Bad habits, Hannibal."

"One of many."

"Truly." Will flicks a glance down to Clem again, then smiles. "I'll see you in a bit."

Hannibal leans in for another soft kiss: he likes the look of surprise on Will's face, and his faint satisfaction when they part. He’d gladly take another, but ultimately resists.

"I'll come down and cook breakfast," he suggests, and Will nods before he opens up his bedroom door, hovering there for a minute. They both feel it, he knows. The draw for more.

Then, Will sighs, and closes it over behind him, and Hannibal returns to his own, to rest, to wait.

*

After Hannibal leaves, the intimacy he brought to breakfast still haunts Will like a warm spot left from a sunbeam.

He spends a couple of days ruminating on it; meets Freddie Lounds for a vicious liquid lunch that culminates in a bad hangover, and her sending him the first chapters of her book. He has to admit, outside of her being a bitch on wheels, she really can spin a pack of lies.

Better lies than the truth, after all.

They have tentatively agreed to keep Chilton's involvement as the Ripper an epilogue. The outline concentrates almost solely on Will's experience being manipulated by the Ripper; prison, the Shrike. It makes him feel dirty to talk about it, an intimacy he doesn't feel qualified to share without permission, and it's missing so much – but really, how could he tell the truth?

Thankfully, Freddie is exceptionally good at filling in the blanks.

It might be the new Apply Whiskey to Affected Area tact he’s been taking doing the talking, but he feels mostly complacent about the whole thing. It feels like it's happening to someone else; like she's writing about someone else. She might as well be.

He just wants it all to go away again. Or maybe he wants to go away. If he takes Hannibal with him, perhaps it won't touch them.

*

He's still thinking about it when he arrives at Hannibal's house with his overnight bag that Friday evening, the dogs left in the care of a neighbour, but the urge settles as soon as he sees Hannibal.

He's ready, Clementine already in her harness, her coat tucked into the handle of his suitcase.

"Will," he greets warmly, "need anything before we set off?"

"No, I'm fine." He suppresses a smile at the little plaid coat.

Hannibal closes the door behind himself and gives Will a grateful smile when he takes his bag for him. He loads them into the Bentley while Hannibal buckles Clem in.

"Is she good on long drives?" He asks, smiling at the plush blanket that's down on the back seat.

"She's very good." They get in, fastening up, and Hannibal adds, "Though usually she sits on the passenger seat."

Will laughs. "Oh, how rude of me."

Hannibal's smile is, for once, entirely human. "Yes, you may have to trade if she loses her temper."

Will glances at the furry thing sitting pretty on her blanket.

"Deal." He reaches back to stroke her, and then settles into his seat as Hannibal starts the engine.

He's determined not to ask where they're going: Hannibal would probably just give him one of his slow smiles. Even so, it occurs to Will it's a potentially lethal situation. Forgetting what Hannibal is will not be the reason he dies this weekend. He won't allow it.

After a couple of hours, he glances over.

"How much longer are we going to be?"

"Not terribly. Would you like to rest? I don't mind."

A non-answer.

"I imagine Clementine is crossing her legs."

Hannibal smiles slightly. "I'll stop soon for her."

When they finally stop proper, Will can smell the ocean; hear the distant roar of waves, which narrows things down... a bit.

There's a house lit on lip of the cliff, hunched low and sharp like an elegant temple, an origami quality to it. Will considers it, and then looks at Hannibal.

"Summer home?" He queries, with a bite to his voice.

"Something like that." Hannibal leashes Clem and sets her on the ground, walking them up the long path to the house, the great glass walls showing a warm and inviting scene in a modern, sleek interior.

"Someone's inside," Will says sharply.

Hannibal just takes out the keys.

"Nothing to worry about," he assures.

Will puts his hands in his pockets, feeling for his knife. Just in case. Then, Hannibal just opens the door and takes Clementine inside.

"It smells good," he calls out.

"Thanks, I added rosemary." Her long hair a sleek chestnut fall over one shoulder, fawn eyes blue as dawn, Abigail appears in the opening of the lounge-diner with bunny slippers and a shirt Will recognises as one of his own, on as a coverup. She offers him one of her tucked-small smiles.

"Hello, Will."

His heart feels as if it's caught in an avalanche. With a weak, half-heard cry, he goes to her, his hands shaking when he reaches out, questioning.

"You're real."

"As far as I know," she whispers, and she reaches back. He wraps her in a hard embrace, relieved when it's mutual; when she doesn't shy.

"I'm sorry," he utters, touching the back of her hair, warm and soft.

"I understand everything," she replies. "Hannibal explained. And I'm sorry too." She takes a wet breath, and then squeezes tighter. "Really, really sorry."

He knows. He understands everything, too. They have one thing in common that caused the misunderstanding. The thing that is currently standing, holding a puppy, and smiling beatifically at them both.

Will doesn't know whether to punch him or kiss him - a more common emotion than he'd ever have anticipated when he'd met Hannibal. He just buries his face back in Abigail's hair until it subsides.

Eventually, they pull apart, both of them wiping their eyes slightly.

"I cooked for you," she says.

"Smells good," Will echoes, shell-shocked.

Abigail smiles. "Good, because it won't be ready for a while." She holds out her arms for the puppy.

Hannibal brings her over, still smiling faintly.

"You'd better explain now," she tells him.

"Yes, please explain," Will says, voice crisp.

"Wine?" Hannibal asks politely.

"I'll get it," Abigail puts in, making her escape. She takes the dog, leaving no shield for the two of them.

Putting his hands in his pockets, Will just looks at Hannibal's shoes and waits.

"Will," Hannibal says softly.

"You let me think I had killed and eaten her," Will whispers, "and then you let me think _you_ had."

"Perhaps... I wanted you to know how it feels," Hannibal murmurs back.

The words plunge Will into those dark waters again, floundering in the mire before he finds his footing. Hannibal's face seems secondary to what he sees now; a shaky image of grief, not yet fully formed.

"You had a child?"

"No," Hannibal replies, sounding far away. "I had a sister."

The smell of cooking, the ear, hiding, eating. It all whirls inside of Will, photographs circling in a tumulus current, a wave crash aligning them finally.

"Someone killed her," he says, barely audible, "and you had to eat her."

Hannibal's eyes glint when he looks up. Will sees it all spread out before him like courses on a dinner table - the act of consuming, hunting, chasing. Forgiveness and betrayal. And in the center of it all, him, burning in Hannibal's effigy.

"And how did it feel?" he asks slowly, knowing Hannibal will know exactly what he means. "Was I a good sacrificial lamb?"

"You were perfect," Hannibal tells him. Distance opens up between them as he walks to the great glass wall and looks out into the restless night, his silhouette dark and hauntingly familiar from the images of Will's dreams. The silence drapes over them, until Hannibal finally admits, "but I was not satisfied with the results of my experiments."

"No?" Will says softly. "After all that, it didn't all wash away?"

"I felt ever more stained," Hannibal whispers, shoulders relaxing just an increment as Will closes the distance once again.

"No one saw it, did they? Except me." Slowly, he puts his hand on Hannibal's shoulder, a shield against his back. "Tell me how you feel now."

"Freshly cauterised," Hannibal whispers, "tender and exhausted. There's a purity to it."

"How do you imagine I feel?" Will asks.

The barest trace of a sigh. Hannibal barely seems to consider.

"You feel what I feel."

"And what will you do now?" Will murmurs.

A shaking breath. Will can see Hannibal's eyes shining with tears.

"What will you do, Will?"

"I suppose I'll forgive you."

Another shudder. Hannibal's poise is unshakable, and he can't look at Will, but the clench of his hands is all Will needs.

"No one ever said it wouldn't hurt."

"Nothing is painless, Hannibal, especially not with you."

He still hurts, after all. But Hannibal's right; there's a purity to it. All the rot is gone.

"Christ forgave us," Hannibal murmurs, "as he forgave Judas."

"Judas fled to a tree," Will replies, and asks again, "What will you do? I can't imagine it involves shame."

"No. I prefer to wait around, and witness resurrection."

Will pictures a chessboard, Hannibal smiling faintly on the other side. He rests his forehead against his shoulder, shivering with relief when Hannibal's hand comes up to tousle his hair gently.

"Not too tender for this, then," Hannibal murmurs.

"It's about all that isn't tender between us."

"Why is that, I wonder?"

Will thinks it out, and offers, somewhat hesitantly, "I like it when you touch me. It always feels... like it's for you. Not for me. Not to comfort me, or manipulate me. You touch me because it comforts you."

Hannibal's fingers keep moving.

"And why do you touch me?"

"Because I feel what you feel," Will whispers.

"And that's enough?" Hannibal asks him. "Being my mirror?"

"It was enough for me to be your mirror when I went to prison," Will can't keep the slight hiss out of it.

"You have more than that inside of you," Hannibal says softly, sounding reproachful.

"You think I'm saying it's not mutual? You think I'd let you get _that_ far inside me just in the interest of reflection?" It wanders into insulted now, his lip curling.

Hannibal lets him draw back, but not away, hand still cupping the back of his head. He weathers the curled lip and the glare like they were a lover's sigh. Then Will does sigh.

"Jesus. You actually _are_ just waiting for me to say it, aren't you? You manipulative bastard."

"I don't often require convention," Hannibal allows, "but as they say, sometimes the old methods are the best."

Will lets his head drop down onto Hannibal's shoulder again, willing Hannibal's God to give him strength. Ever eager to give him what he needs, Hannibal turns to take him in his arms.

"Do you honestly have any doubt at all that I love you?" Will asks him in a harsh whisper.

"You did try to have me killed," Hannibal quips. When Will growls up at him, he smiles, his hands framing Will's jaw gently.

"Beverly..." Will whispers, to watch the word chase the smile off Hannibal’s face. "She was my friend."

"You knew what you were setting in motion," Hannibal contradicts him softly. "And however much I adore you, I have to protect myself. And Abigail."

Abigail. Of course. With a slow sigh, Will deflates again.

"Will," Hannibal murmurs into his hair.

"What is it?"

"Why don't you go help Abigail finish dinner?" he suggests gently.

"What will you be doing?"

"Taking Clementine for a walk."

Without even pretending not to know what he's doing, Will just nods.

"All right."

Hannibal leads him into the kitchen, plucking Clem out of the dog bed there - clearly, she's been here before - and smiling at Abigail before leaving them alone.

When he closes the glass door behind him, he takes the sound of the ocean with him, and the draughty silence he leaves behind is nearly deafening.

"I can put my headphones back on if you like," Abigail finally offers with a crooked smile, motioning to the shiny white headband lying on the kitchen counter. "I didn't want to eavesdrop."

"No, no." Will hugs himself a bit. "Just - don't know where to start, I guess."

"Wherever you like," she murmurs, going to the cutting board and starting to chop salad greens.

Kicking at the tiled floor, he searches, and eventually offers, "I'm sorry I scared you at the cabin. I wasn't thinking right, I was sick."

"I'm used to being scared," she says, not quite forgiveness, and he lets it sting him; turns away. "No, wait - Will -"

"You don't owe me anything, I know that."

"I owe you a lot. I wouldn't be here without you. I know _that_."

"What do you mean?" Will frowns.

"Hannibal didn't keep me around out of the goodness of his heart. I’m still a lure, I always was."

That makes Will feel unsteady all over again.

"He cares about you."

"I know," she replies. "But he'd have sent me off somewhere a lot quicker, not kept me around here. I can do online school anywhere, and it’s not exactly convenient, or safe here, like you said. And I - wanted to see you again too," she colors a bit.

"It's not safe for you to be this close to Baltimore," Will acknowledges, half-heartedly.

"I'm going to Canada next semester," Abigail tells him, a bit of pride in her voice. "To McGill."

"That's - that's amazing." Will smiles, and the pride he feels is fierce and jealous. "You have - papers?"

She nods. "New school, new girl. I already took the GED, but Hannibal is having me take a few extra prep classes."

"That sounds like him. I think Clementine will get the same deal."

She giggles. "College prep puppy classes?"

"Absolutely, for when she gets her doggy doctorate."

"I missed you," Abigail says suddenly, when she stops laughing.

It makes Will swallow heavily. "I missed you too. I thought - I thought I'd killed you. I thought I'd let him win."

"You won't, will you? Let him win?"

"Never," he tells her softly, "I mean - I haven't so far, have I?"

"If you hadn't gotten sick..."

"If I hadn't gotten sick, what?"

"He put you in prison, but only because you were too sick to figure it out."

"I figured it out while I was sick," he grouses, "just no one believed me."

She smiles sadly. "I did."

"You were dead," Will mutters, and then he double-takes. "Your ear-"

"I have an appointment for reconstruction in a few months." She motions to her hair, covering it in a sleek fall.

Will bites his lip and shakes his head to rid it of images.

"You must have been terrified."

She shrugs. "I trusted him."

She had no choice. Will takes a look around to check Hannibal isn't lurking outside before he steps in close to touch her shoulders.

"When you get to school," he murmurs, "do everything you can to... shake Hannibal's influence."

She eyes him steadily. "I already knew how to do that."

"Good." He nods. "Good girl."

"Not yours though," she whispers, half a compliment, half an accusation, he thinks. He's not sure what to say for a moment, once more.

"Mine probably isn't the one you want to be under, either."

"Maybe not all of it."

He strokes her hair again gently, taking in her soft freckles, pale skin, eyes that match his. They could still be her fathers, he realises, with aching relief. They could still get her out of this.

With tears in his eyes, he cups her hands in his, and gently squeezes.

"I'm so glad you're here."

"Me too, Will."

He lets his hands drop away to wipe his eyes and finally picks up one of the three glasses of wine on the counter, lifting one to his nose and inhaling slowly. He can pick out a few notes, at this point.

When he picks up the bottle, he sees that the wine is the same age as he is, and sighs. Deliberately chosen, he knows.

"Let it never be said he's not sentimental," he says to himself.

Abigail just smiles.

The sound of the wind breaking back into the house signifies Hannibal's return home. Perfect timing, as usual.

"Unexpectedly chilly out there even for the time of year, I'm glad I brought Clementine's coat," he says amicably, shrugging out of his own.

Will has to smile at the sight of her, and the way Abigail seems to wordlessly hand dinner off to Hannibal at her reappearance, scooping her up and cooing to her, leaving Will magnetized to Hannibal instead. He holds up the bottle of wine.

"A good vintage," Hannibal murmurs.

"Notes of acid and salt," Will says dryly.

Hannibal smiles.

"Pairs well with red meat."

Will feels himself color.

"Was that a dirty joke?"

"I'm sure I have no idea."

Raising a brow, Will just passes Hannibal a glass. He still feels faintly warm when Hannibal inhales slowly over the rim, eyes lingering on Will as if he were examining a plate of hors d’oeuvres.

"What's for dinner?" Will asks quietly.

"Stuffed beef tenderloin and ratatouille niçoise," Abigail answers.

"Cooking classes too, you've kept busy."

"I think that part's contagious," she glances at Hannibal with a smile.

"Compulsory, perhaps. I don't cook fancy," Will warns Hannibal.

"You never have to. I am delighted to cook for you any time you wish."

"I bet." He sips his wine. Hannibal gives him another smile, and then gestures.

"I'll see to the table."

"And what can I do?"

"Other than providing scintillating conversation?"

"That might be a tall order."

"Nonsense, you do it without trying." He gestures gracefully. "Come keep me company."

Faintly suspicious, Will does, holding both their glasses while Hannibal starts to lay down cutlery. It's like watching some strange postmodern ballet.

"I actually have a serious conversation topic that it might be... pertinent to have. Now that we are on the other side of the veil."

"See?" Hannibal replies. "Scintillating. Please go on, Will."

"The place you kept Miriam lass... is a decoy, correct?"

Hannibal scoffs elegantly, and Will folds his arms and raises an eyebrow.

"I think you know you are correct," Hannibal murmurs.

"So we're gonna need to clear out your basement, if there’s anything left after what you laid on Chilton."

"The majority is safe," Hannibal says, adjusting a candle slightly, “but a few relics of the past remain. I haven’t yet been able to relocate them.”

"I suggest you un-relic them," Will says.

"Is that part of your second condition?" Hannibal murmurs.

"Is that acceptable?"

"Yes," Hannibal says after a long moment.

"All right. I can help," he offers after some thought.

Hannibal and Abigail both look at him curiously.

"That's participation," Hannibal replies.

"It's self-preservation."

Hannibal tilts his head, clearly trying to parse Will's precise meaning. "Completing your profile?" He hazards.

"That was done long ago," Will murmurs. He wets his lips. "Who better to help you broom your tracks than the guy who caught you?"

"Who better," Hannibal echoes. He gives Will a slow once over, and then a clandestine smile.

Blushing, Will glances at Abigail for her reaction, but she's conspicuously attentive to dinner. He senses it is her typical approach to conflict avoidance with Hannibal. Smart girl.

She also allows Hannibal to seat both herself and Will before he goes to plate their food.

"Collaborative effort," she quips to Will.

"So he's capable of it, then," Will murmurs.

"Occasionally."

Will's eyes travel back to the kitchen. He's sure Hannibal can hear them both. However, his face is perfectly blank when he brings their plates, and dinner continues with a smattering of - more or less - pleasant conversation. Will can never resist getting a jab in.

“Feels like old times,” Abigail observes, as Hannibal tops up Will’s wine.

He thinks about it for a moment as he whirls the rim under his nose. Here in the glass house, balanced on both literal and figurative precipices, isolated and comforted by Hannibal’s presence alone, exactly as he intends them to be.

“Feels like home,” he agrees, softly.

After dinner, Abigail provides them with dessert in the living area, and a somewhat confounding run through of her latest pre-reading for school. While she talks, Clementine lies in front of the fire, stretched out long and ungainly, and Will settles down with Hannibal on one of the many strange, ornamental pieces of furniture. Will props his feet on the coffee table, mostly to annoy Hannibal, and sips a glass of very fine whisky. He notices Hannibal's pointed gaze and raises his eyebrows.

"Problem?"

"Nothing I feel unequal to dealing with," Hannibal replies silkily.

"Sounds like I'm in trouble."

"Would you like to be?"

"Gross," Abigail says aloud, and then looks a bit surprised at herself.

Will laughs, and then doesn’t stop laughing for a minute or two. It's probably the most normal they've been all night. Even Hannibal chuckles.

She takes the opportunity of them both distracted to slip in - "Maybe Clem could sleep in my room tonight?"

Will flushes, but Hannibal just smiles.

"If you like."

"Maybe I'll take her for another walk first," she suggests, “I could do with some air.”

"Take your phone, stay on the path," Hannibal warns.

They can all sense what she wants to reply. Instead, she just hops up to go and get her coat with a sunny, sarcastic little "Yes dad".

Will is watching Hannibal when she says it, and he shakes his head faintly. Will can't help smiling. When Abigail closes the door behind her, he releases a breath he'd forgotten he was holding.

"Think Clem is gonna get a lot of exercise this weekend."

"She's attempting to give us our space," Hannibal agrees.

"She's very subtle."

"For a teenager."

"She's great," Will murmurs, peering into the bottom of his glass. "I missed her."

"She missed you too," Hannibal murmurs back.

Will smiles when he feels Hannibal's proximity like sunlight; the brush of his nose against his ear. He turns his head.

"Your plans have plans, you know that?" He tells him.

"I try," Hannibal murmurs.

"Mm, I know."

"You sound admiring, Will."

"Hard to deny the devil works well."

"Am I the devil?"

"God's biggest fan and keenest student? Absolutely." He meets Hannibal's eyes as he says it, and notes with warmth prickling under his skin that Hannibal seems pleased. Fuck if that doesn't make him pleased, too.

Hannibal kisses him, and Will lets it happen. It’s better for both of them if he doesn’t resist.

"I'm afraid there's only two bedrooms," Hannibal murmurs, "unless you'd like Clementine's bed."

"Did you plan that?" Will asks casually.

"I couldn't build another room in time for your arrival I'm afraid, I had already had it modified significantly since the initial purchase."

"I could sleep on the couch," Will points out, though with Hannibal's hand still low on his waist it feels disingenuous - which it is. Somewhat mercilessly, Hannibal laughs, soft and scathing.

"You could. Is that what you want?"

Will sighs slowly and shakes his head. "You know what I want."

He accepts another slow, teasing kiss.

"You want what I want, if you can make up your mind to admit it."

"Do you ever," Will mutters against his lips, "give it a rest?"

"Not when it involves you, Will. You know this well enough."

"Like a dog with a goddamn bone," he murmurs.

"You would know."

"As would you."

A sigh from both of them, then their lips touch again. Then Hannibal eases back and cups his cheek.

"As ever, I find myself more captivated by you than I thought possible."

"It's possible," Will admits. He feels it too.

Hannibal smiles. "So I see." He reaches for Will's glass. "Another drink?"

"I'd love one." Will looks at the time. "I'm exhausted."

"Nightcap in my room?" Hannibal murmurs.

"Let's wait for Abi to get home."

Hannibal nods in acknowledgment, fingers moving gently at Will's waist. The strangeness of his closeness strikes Will often, now. Simmering in the basement of the BSHCI, he remembers wanting to watch him dangle from the end of his line like a snared fish. Now all he wants is to reel him in.

That's the trick with the Devil, he thinks, he'll make you crave that which you fear. Will has craved him for a long time, and feared him much longer.

"I want you," he whispers now, forehead pressing against Hannibal's shoulder.

"You can have me."

"I want to keep you."

"You can keep me."

"I want to trust you."

"So trust me."

It's not "you can trust me," Will knows, because Hannibal knows the difference. He sighs and strokes gently through his hair.

"You gave me Abi back," he whispers.

"I did. I always meant to."

Will tastes the words, and then shakes his head.

"I've told you," he whispers, just mildly, "not to lie to me."

"Then it's good that it's not a lie."

"Maybe not today."

Hannibal pouts, there's no other word for it.

"Will..." He says, quiet but emphatic.

"Don’t," Will mutters. "Don’t ruin it." He curls closer with a sigh and, relenting, Hannibal strokes gently through his hair.

They stay close even when the door snicks open and Abigail brings Clementine in, until she bounces expectantly up at Hannibal's knee, and he breaks away to lift her up.

It's ridiculously satisfying to watch her lick and fuss at Hannibal excitedly, seemingly more enthused by his soft, foreign conversation. She loves him, and he indulges her. Even when her efforts yield two damp, dirty footprints on his shirt, he seems content.

Breathless with laughter, he glances up at Abigail.

"Ready to retire?"

"Yeah, I'm going." She has her headphones around her neck. "Will she really stay with me all night?"

"She's usually very good, but if she’s fractious or disturbs you, let her into our room."

 _Our room_. It echoes like a gunshot in Will’s ears.

"Okay. I’ll just get a glass of water." Oblivious, or pretending to be, Abigail nods and beckons Clementine down from the sofa and toward the kitchen.

"Take her bed," Will puts in.

She snags it on her way back through with a little smile. "Goodnight, everybody."

And then she's gone, her happy little shadow trailing behind her, leaving Will alone with his own.

"How about that nightcap?" Hannibal prompts.

"Sounds good right about now."

Hannibal gets up to fix their drinks, and Will takes it as an opportunity to gather himself, to reflect. This isn't a tease anymore, or a power struggle. It's a mutual understanding, and a choice. He feels the weight of that.

It's strangely comforting to recognise his own agency where before he lacked it so profusely. Hannibal has given him that since that first night in his kitchen, and Will, he reminds himself, has let him. It's a frustrating cycle, no telling where either of their control or manipulations start or end. Maybe it’s better that way.

Moving silently, Hannibal brings Will his drink and waits for him to stand to take it, gaze soft and open, body language utterly at ease but for that lingering thread of tension in his shoulders. Their fingers touch on the cool glass, gazes snagging, but Hannibal just leads Will toward the bedrooms, picking up Will's bag on the way.

In the en suite, Will folds his clothes, brushes his teeth, and - without consciously acknowledging why - takes a short shower to wipe away the evidence of a day spent walking dogs and then sitting in a car for hours. He does it anyway, using the products in the shower stall. They smell like Hannibal, and by extension, so does he.

He loves smelling like Hannibal.

"Looks like he's not the only one who's got it bad," he mutters, getting dressed for bed, hair dripping, and skin flushed.

When he's ready, he opens the door quietly and steps out, skirting past Hannibal on the way, who gives him one of those secret smiles before going in to take his turn.

While he waits, Will sits on the edge of the bed, looking out the window into the night and sipping his drink. It's a curiously overlooked room even with Hannibal’s renovation, still with those great glass walls, the dark pressing against the glass, the fingertips of tree branches tapping the glass and the wind whistling against the sharp angles.

Will gets up and draws the blinds compulsively, and that feels safer. There's a little streak of possessiveness beneath that, too, he acknowledges. He's craven where Hannibal is concerned, jealous even. He daren't even think of the time Hannibal has spent here with Abigail, it seems too dangerous.

He has to let it go. He has to let everything but now go.

In the en suite, he hears the water turn off.

He can't stop looking at Hannibal when he emerges, wearing only pajama pants, slung low. The compact lines of his shoulders and arms are somewhere near mouth-watering.

Will isn't precisely sure what his face does, but Hannibal once again looks pleased.

"Comfortable?" He inquires, nodding to where Will has settled on the bed.

"Comfortable enough."

"For now?"

"For now."

With a smile, Hannibal comes to Will's side of the bed, just standing, studying him.

"We've never been in a bed together, Will. Tell me, has that been a conscious decision?"

"What do you think?"

"Answering questions with questions, Will. Your pet hate."

Will grimaces. "Yes, Hannibal, it's been a very conscious decision."

"Sleep is the place you're most at risk," Hannibal assesses, "most afraid."

Will looks at his hands.

"I dream a lot," he shrugs, "about you, sometimes. A lot."

"Tell me?"

"The subject isn't the point. The point is - my sleep is the place I feel the least safe from you."

"For good reason," Hannibal agrees solemnly.

Will fidgets with his glasses, turning them over in his hands.

"Are you desirous of an apology?" Hannibal asks.

" _Jesus_ , yeah right." He shakes his head. "

"It was a sincere question."

"I just want..." Will swallows. "I just want you to understand. Why I might not be able to stay in here."

Hannibal doesn't answer, and Will looks up at him, shying from the potential hurt. Hannibal looks hurt too. It feels as bad as it feels good. It feels only fair. He can either be hurt, or make his next move.

"Stay with me," he says softly.

"I'll try." Will closes his eyes, then sets his glass down.

When he shifts, Hannibal takes his cue to kneel over him slowly. His hands are cool from his own glass, and they find Will's shoulders. Slowly, he bows his head to kiss him. It takes over his senses like always, stealing his conscience, his resistance, replacing it with mindless want.

He arches into the heat of his body with a sigh, and Hannibal crowds him thoroughly, and slowly.

"I like you in my bed," he murmurs.

"Do you." Will strokes through the damp strands of his hair. "How else do you like me?"

"Seeking pleasure."

Will kisses him again, and lets Hannibal slip between his thighs, settle against him, sleek and strong. His lips travel against Will's jaw, making him arch, shivering.

"Touch me," he orders shakily.

Hannibal complies, hands skating up under his t-shirt, thumbs skimming his nipples so his breath catches.

"Good," he stutters, another few trailing kisses making him gasp.

Hannibal knows exactly how to work his body. He's stroking over his skin, almost massaging, and Will hates how much he loves to be touched by him. He'd take pain as long as it came in an embrace. Maybe that's where the fear comes from.

"More, Hannibal." It tumbles out of his mouth unbidden. "Please."

"My pleasure." He pushes the shirt up gently, and the sleek bow of his head makes Will groan even before his mouth makes contact.

"I - I want you inside me."

The soft exhale of Hannibal's breath wraps around his ribs.

"Good," Hannibal whispers.

It makes Will laugh in a short, fractured burst despite himself.

"'Good', huh?"

"Good," Hannibal repeats, "because I know that feeling well."

"You do? Tell me how you feel it."

"Under my skin, like an ache."

He sucks softly at a nipple to make Will sigh, then his teeth prickle along a pectoral.

"Feels like hurting," Will admits, "wanting you."

"Nothing else touches me, but you," Hannibal replies, tongue tracing a rib.

That makes Will whine again softly.

"Except Alana."

This time he's not spared. "Jealous, Will?"

"Pissed off would be more accurate."

"How so?"

Will curls his lip. "You made the woman I had feelings for think I was a serial killer, and then you seduced her."

Hannibal draws back to look at him. "Feelings?"

"Don't worry, you killed them."

"I did." Eyes dark, he kisses him again. "Nothing else touches me, but you," he repeats.

"So you say."

"Yet you deny you're jealous."

"Jealousy is when someone has a better car than you. This isn't that. It's the acknowledgement that nothing is sacred to you, unless you decide it is later." He looks up at Hannibal steadily, at his maroon eyes reflecting the bedside light.

"I'm sorry, Will," he whispers.

"How do you intend to make it up to me?"

"However you please, Will."

"Show me how you feel, then."

"Haven't I yet?"

"You've let me use you for a vessel for how I feel."

"And I savored it. Shall we reverse roles now?"

"All right," Will nods. "Quid pro quo."

"As ever," Hannibal says, face suffused with warmth. He leans in again slowly, and Will receives him with purpose, with hands in his hair to keep him close. Greedy and tight.

As their kisses grow more searching, Will fumbles at Hannibal's waistband. His skin is so close, and Will needs more; needs to be flush against him.

With an amused hum, Hannibal helps him strip them both, a hush falling between them then; everything feels so crushingly close, real and vulnerable. Maybe Will was wrong to think that sleep was the most frightening part. And this isn't even the first time they've been like this.

Hannibal is right, though. Before, he wasn't giving anything he could lose. Now, Hannibal's weight between his thighs feels much more of a risk. Will needs to find the courage to let him in, consciously, with Will present and consenting.

"Will," Hannibal murmurs, maybe sensing his hesitance, "Let me make you more comfortable." It's said with his lips pressed against Will's jaw.

"Try it."

Hannibal's hands run over his skin. "Turn over for me?"

Will hesitates, then lets himself be turned, Hannibal's hands weighting, soothing as he goes. Just like always. He arches into it with a sigh, and they press down his spine. Hannibal's mouth touches the notches of bone before they move to his shoulders, lipping the scars there. He's covering Will like a blanket now, like he's been mounted. He turns his head, and sighs when Hannibal kisses his cheek, then the back of his neck, where his hair curls against tender skin.

"Beautiful," Hannibal whispers. "I adore you, Will. So very much."

That makes Will sigh slowly. He feels it fill him like a slow trickle of warmth.

"Show. Don't tell."

With a soft laugh, Hannibal leans to the bedside table, and Will watches him retrieve a little glass jar, unmistakable in context.

"What's wrong with a tube of KY like everyone else," he grouses.

"Nothing, for someone else."

"But for you? It has to have-" Will squints, " – an _ombre_ glass tint? That’s a little early two thousands, isn’t it?"

"Are you trying to distract me or yourself, Will?"

"Me, I haven't done this in a long time, and for a guy who never stops talking you're unusually quiet."

"I was savoring," Hannibal murmurs.

"Can you share your savoring with the class?"

"You have the back of a Roman marble," Hannibal tells him.

"You often think of fucking Roman marbles?" Will curls his lip, then laughs. "You probably do."

Hannibal punishes him with more silence even as he unscrews the lid from the little glass jar with a scratching clink. Will can feel a little quiver take up residence in his spine.

The first dribble is cold, and not at all where he expected it, at the small of his back where it immediately starts running. Hannibal's warm hands stop its path to his sheets, and his thumbs spread it a little ways up his back before he works it down over Will's ass, to his thighs, fingers seeking vulnerable spots, kneading away tension and spreading the oil with purpose. It even smells good.

"Jesus," Will croaks, tensing and then relaxing in increments. He tenses again when he feels Hannibal, thick and hot and riding the cleft of his ass, just for a moment, teasing.

"Relax," Hannibal tells him softly, settling on his knees between Will’s thighs and bending to kiss Will's shoulders again as his fingers tease between his cheeks, spreading more oil, stroking slick and warm. "Kiss me, Will."

He does, craning back, breath stuttering between them as Hannibal rubs and presses, and slowly slips a finger inside him.

"God," Will groans.

"His keenest student," Hannibal corrects. Then he crooks the finger slightly. Will draws another big breath against his lips, and with a slow nudge of Hannibal's finger inside him, muffles his groan with his shoulder.

"What a sound, Will," Hannibal murmurs.

"God, shut up, do it again."

Hannibal does it again, and Will arches, stuttering, squirming. All the while, Hannibal is insufferably quiet and smug behind him, starting to stroke in deep and smooth in downward motions, twisting in two fingers and stretching him gently. Will is rendered speechless with a glut of need.

"Oh _fuck_ ," he breathes, turning his face into his arms. He feels Hannibal inside him now, not just physically but - everywhere.

"Will," he purrs against his ear, "tell me how you feel."

"Aflame," Will whispers.

"Is that a good thing?"

"Depends if it consumes me." Hannibal twists his fingers in a deep stroke, and Will forgets where he was going with that. Or maybe he stops caring. " _More._ "

Hannibal obliges him with another few deep strokes; a third finger to make him feel fuller, more teasing touches against his prostate making his hips lift as he groans again. It's so incredibly good.

Lips on his spine pull him back toward conscious thought, but not entirely.

"More," he burbles into his skin, ears burning, and Hannibal kisses down, down, down to where his fingers stretch Will open. "Hannibal-" it comes out as even more of a whine than he anticipated.

Then he feels his tongue and his air cuts right off. He's still pressing and twisting slowly inside with his fingers, but his tongue laps and teases, startling tension through Will's thighs.

Groaning, he rubs himself mindlessly against the mattress.

He can hardly keep quiet, and Hannibal urges him on with every motion. It's so much, intense and somehow quiet, the intimacy of Hannibal touching him pinning and holding. Startlingly, it's easy to be held. Perhaps the only thing that Hannibal has ever made easy. Will makes himself feel it all, until it's not enough again.

"Hannibal," he hisses, wriggling when Hannibal’s answering hum buzzes against his skin. The persistent rock of his fingers is so good he can barely think, but he wants more. He bears back again, a frustrated noise escaping him.

With a faint huff of laughter, Hannibal pulls away, hands pressing on Will's back as he repositions.

“All right, Will. Just a moment longer.”

Will hears the clink of the jar again and looks round, drinking in the sight as Hannibal slicks his cock with one hand, lashes down and mouth slightly agape. Will watches unashamedly, fire trickling down his belly to the molten pool that gathers where Hannibal’s fingers had touched only moments before.

"C'mon," he murmurs, "now."

"Now," Hannibal echoes, lining up.

Will gasps as he arches up to receive him. It's a relentless invasion, thick and hot, and Will can barely keep quiet. He muffles it in the skin of his forearm once more, hands clenched in the sheets, toes drawing half circles as he arches his hips.

Hannibal's hands are large and warm on his sides, weight pinning and comforting, his breath hot on Will's skin as he presses deep, and then lowers himself against his back. Will knows his groan crawls through them both, the first rock of Hannibal's hips renders him breathless though; voiceless. He thrusts slowly, each movement deeper.

His arms bridge under Will's chest, caging him in, and Will desperately twines their fingers together and clutches as Hannibal moves slick and heavy inside him.

"Oh _god_..."

"Will," Hannibal whispers harshly.

"Yeah, yeah, perfect." It's so deep and sure, slow and with barely any space opening up between them. Will tilts his hips up for more and cries out at the increase in speed; the renewed pressure against that spot inside. Hannibal's mouth moves across the backs of his shoulders.

"Perfect boy," he breathes. "I've dreamed of this."

"Is it as good?" Will slurs, eyes flickering shut against more waves of electric, sapid pleasure; an overwhelming sense of completion. He's not sure if they're his feelings or Hannibal's. Maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe they're one and the same.

"It's always beautiful," Hannibal murmurs in his ear, "but nothing could compare to you like this. Gold and shedding heat. A perfect vessel for pleasure."

"A vessel," Will groans.

"My vessel," Hannibal assures, hips jerking faster, his lips pressing kisses to Will's shoulder and neck.

That's what this is about, Will remembers. He supposes it's mutual. They're both as possessive as one another.

With a slow sigh, Hannibal sits back on his knees to grip Will's waist and starts to fuck him deeper, faster, smooth as anything. He's still not talking. It's shaking Will as much as the masterful assault on his pleasure centers.

He can't ask, can't speak himself, can only arch back helplessly for more. Maybe they have no words left. Maybe there's just this. Just Hannibal bending to taste the sweat between Will's shoulder blades as he fucks him to shivering beneath him, the two of them moving like one uncontainable beast.

It's so much at the newer angle, desperately good, but Will is struck by missing Hannibal against his back.

"C'you come back down here?" He says softly.

Hannibal makes a soft noise, like a growl, and pulls him up instead.

"Oh fuck-" he bridges at the change; another stretch, more pressure inside, "Oh god, Hannibal."

"Not quite," Hannibal laughs softly, voice like velvet.

Will has to grab back at his hair and wrench to shut him up. He thrills at the little hiss and Hannibal's mean-spirited snap of his hips, the angle of which makes Will's cock jerk and his whole body tighten up.

"Fuck- _do that again._ "

He does, and Will sags his head back against his shoulder with a groan. And then he does it again.

"That's it," he whispers against Will's ear when he gasps and undulates once more, "touch yourself for me now, Will."

Will bares his teeth as he obeys. He's so slick he can hear it, and Hannibal lets out a soft groan against his ear at the sound, hips snapping forward, pushing Will into his own fist.

"Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ -" He's never felt so consumed. Never felt as right. He can't help arching back for another kiss, biting, possessive when Hannibal obliges him.

His hands are all over Will, even as he fucks into him, rough and remorseless. Everything between them feels harsh and messy; the sounds and air in the room too close. Will strokes himself faster, smearing the wet he's leaking, panting hard. 

"Hannibal, I..."

He feels hot breath on his ear, and a few strokes of Hannibal’s cock so deep and perfect that the quivering pool he’s had filling inside him starts to spill, pulling cries from him.

"I know. Show me, Will."

With a gasp, he writhes and bucks to completion, his body clamping down around Hannibal. His release hits his thighs in long, pearly strings, running down his cock faster than he can stroke out the last of it. The feeling keeps coming in hard pulses as Hannibal cries out against his neck, hands gripping at Will's middle, still moving at a savage pace.

"Fuck," Will rasps finally, dropping one hand down onto the mattress, vision blurring. He feels replete, totally saturated in Hannibal, and bliss, and being known. It’s the vicious prize of being filled.

He sinks back down, and Hannibal comes with him, still buried inside, nestled against Will's back, waiting. It'll be a lot, Will thinks, to keep feeling more now he's come - but he wants it.

"Move," he hisses.

A soft, cherishing kiss against his shoulder. "You're sure?"

"Give me. Everything."

Another soft kiss, this one behind his ear, Hannibal's voice soft like the ocean's sighs outside. "I always have."

His body curled possessively over Will's, he rocks again, and Will feels the thick slide of his cock so intensely. He moans, bracing himself. Hannibal rumbles his name against his skin, breaths coming out measured and harsh, but he doesn't stop, pushing into Will again and again.

They're crushed together again, clinging at hands and wrists and hair, smothered in the darkness of the room, the sheets, and the need. It’s _everything._

There are other small aftershocks going through Will already, making him clench and gasp. Hannibal is nearly silent behind him but for his own breath, but his hands are nearly crushing on Will as he snaps faster, contained by that specific kind of tension that Will recognised as closeness.

Finally, he gives, emanating wave after wave of feeling, tremors and quakes. Will lets it all in. It feels almost like coming twice, feeling as Hannibal shakes against him. He holds him up.

"Will... _Will._ " He sounds staggered, lips catching against Will's when he turns his head, both of them falling helplessly into another kiss.

They can't let go, it seems, so they just breathe each other's breath instead, until eventually Will manages, "Okay?"

Hannibal just nods, hair hanging in his eyes, chest heaving. They gaze at one another a while.

When he finally makes a soft noise and pulls out, Will turns to press their chests together instead, absorbing the strangeness of what’s left behind; the evidence of Hannibal’s mark on him. He feels no desire to wash it away.

They settle into a warm tangle of limbs, pressed close and hot, breaths rushing. Will closes his eyes, letting Hannibal's heat seep into his skin. His head echoes as if Hannibal still lingers there.

Then again, when hasn't Hannibal been inside his head? He has to move past thoughts of exorcisms, move on to synchronicity. This is them, together. As conventional as they know how to be.

He lets himself take in how Hannibal gleams in the amber lamplight, strands of shimmering fire caught in his hair; the lines of his lean muscles. Will has always known he was beautiful, beneath the suits and the baroque trappings, but he wasn't quite prepared for the appetite it would wake in him.

Even now it's still growling faintly inside him. He leans in and feeds it with another deep kiss, feeling Hannibal's pleasure at his initiative, his hand coming to cup the nape of Will's neck, keeping him close, thumb stroking at skin.

"How do you feel?" He whispers.

"Hungry," Will tells him honestly.

A little, surprised laugh.

"For food?"

"No, Hannibal."

"Mm, something else then." His palm skates down Will's side gently.

"For you," Will admits. "More and more of you."

With the lazy pride of someone who knows they've won unfettered access, Hannibal slips a hand down to where Will's soft and slick with his mess, fingers teasing. "Your wish is my command, as ever."

Will moans, sleepily but sincere. He feels fucked out, wrecked, but he still dips his spine and lets his breath escape in a shaky tumble as Hannibal presses two fingers slowly back inside.

"You may have all of me," Hannibal promises, voice low.

"No one else," Will gasps, "just mine."

The penetration feels good, like it won't go anywhere but doesn't need to; like a constant reassurance he’s got Hannibal’s attention.

"Just yours," Hannibal repeats, keeping him close, his fingers moving until Will pulls away with a little noise. Like he understands exactly what he needs, he disentangles himself from Will with one more sleepy kiss and goes to the washroom, leaving Will to sit himself up.

Clean up is gentle, that same taste of cherishing again. Will has to tug him back into bed for a kiss then, sighing, making himself comfortable in his arms.

They're just slumping down into one another when there's a scratch at the door.

Ears heating and trepidation crawling up his spine, Will hauls his sweatpants back on, treading gingerly in the half dark, opening the door a crack. Clementine sticks her nose in; Will opens it farther but Abigail is nowhere in sight. Part of him is relieved.

"Hope those headphones are loud," he says guiltily, watching Clementine hare up onto the bed in a bound, clearly unsettled or intrigued by whatever she’s missing.

"Don't be embarrassed," Hannibal murmurs, letting Clem curl up on his chest.

"I'm not." He is. "I'm just - must be weird for her."

Hannibal sighs, voice placating. "They're _very_ good headphones. I bought them for her."

Sliding back into bed, Will accepts his turn being licked and chewed for a few minutes, laughing.

"I guess earlier I should have said that I want all of you, except what I have to share with Clementine."

"Just my lap and my affections, then."

"Sounds like an acceptable compromise, considering my pack."

Hannibal smiles and strokes Clementine’s back as she settles down in the narrow space between their chests.

"You never asked me about her name," he points out.

"I didn't think you wanted me to give you a mark out of a hundred for originality."

"I didn't."

"No, you just wanted to be acknowledged, as ever."

"By you, Will."

"I feel like credit for this dog being a talisman for my forgiveness should go to me, you just took my idea and made it contextual."

Hannibal just laughs at that. "Then you must forgive me now for such plagiarism."

"While I'm forgiving you for everything else..."

"A tall order?" Hannibal raises his eyebrows, and Will has to cup his cheek.

"It's pretty tall, but I think I can manage." Another kiss, interrupted by a jealous attack of kisses from Clementine, her tail whipping the mattress. “Hey-”

She only quiets when Hannibal cradles her against his chest.

"Jealous," he shrugs, when Will feigns annoyance.

"You know, mine aren't allowed to sleep in bed," Will points out.

"Neither was I, at first."

Will laughs softly. "True."

He strokes through his hair again, heart full.

"I'd like to take you and Abigail to Florence," Hannibal murmurs.

"Oh? When?"

"Soon. Before Abigail goes to school."

"Family vacation?" Will murmurs.

"Yes." Hannibal's eyes shine. "What do you think?"

He can feel the importance that this has to Hannibal. "I think I have plenty of free time, and I bet it's beautiful at Christmastime."

"Christmas in Florence," Hannibal repeats softly, "that sounds perfect."

"We'll have to board the dogs," Will murmurs.

"We could ask someone to house sit them."

"Who, Alana?" Will snorts. "I have someone, don't worry."

"We can pay them handsomely, get some home security cameras."

Will shakes his head, smiling. "If you insist."

"It would be less stressful for the dogs."

"Well, in that case..."

Truthfully, Will is charmed. He watches Hannibal; bites his lip at the sight of him soothing his elegant palms down Clementine's back.

"You love her, don't you?"

Hannibal smiles down at his hands. "Yes." He adds softly, "I do not demonstrate cruelty to animals."

"That was a low blow," Will admits, apologetic.

"It's normal to be curious about someone who feels emotions in a different way you do. Mine develop. Yours barrage you." He pauses. "But yes, I've come to treasure her, if that was your hope."

"It was." Will bites his lip. "I wanted - I wanted to see you love something without being unkind to it."

A deep breath next to him.

"Oh, Will." His hand on Will now, tousling his curls, heel of his palm on his jaw. "Do you see it now? How I love you?" he whispers.

Will bites his lip and bends to kiss him with a weak nod.

"What else do you see?" Hannibal breathes between kisses.

"Family," Will whispers, "some place we all finally fit."

"That's what I see as well. It’s all I ever wanted for us."

A foreign feeling of peace settles over Will. He strokes Clem, settling closer against Hannibal, humming in content when he curls his arm around his shoulders and pulls the covers up.

He who's never fit anywhere... fits here. On the edge of a precipice with a daughter resurrected, the Goddess of Forgiveness, and the Devil himself. He's not sure what that makes him, but he's sure it's what he wants to become.


End file.
